


The Light of a Flame in a Valley of Snow

by lilbluednacer



Series: An Infinity of Worlds [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Political Undertones, Road Trips, Romance, Sharing a Bed, background scallison, drinking as a coping mechanism, the deadpool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 19:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10748385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbluednacer/pseuds/lilbluednacer
Summary: When Stiles goes into the bar he spots Lydia almost immediately, and four feet behind her, standing up against a window, is the man that has been sent to kill her.





	The Light of a Flame in a Valley of Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Okay readers, if you checked out the word count it's obvious that this was the fic that made me realize I was going to have to split everything up into a series. This started as a one shot but I fell so in love with the concept I had to expand it into a full blown story. Hope you enjoy ;)

The night Lydia Martin is destined to die, it's raining. 

Stiles Stilinski stands just outside the entrance to Leather and Lace, the bar that Lydia goes to every Friday night with her fellow research assistants after work. Stiles has been tracking her movements ever since Allison officially hired him and Lydia hasn't missed one Friday night out.

Which is probably the reason why The Benefactor chose tonight to kill her. The guys who work for him have been tracking Lydia too, and Stiles is well aware that when being watched, repetition is a weak spot easily exploited.

Stiles runs his hand over his left side, where his Sig Sauer rests in its holster under his black leather jacket. 

His watch beeps.

Stiles lets himself inside the bar, scanning for Lydia. She's twenty-four now but he's been watching her since he came back in town and he swears she looks even more beautiful now then she did that night eight years ago.

He spots her almost immediately, she's perched on a stool on the right side of the room with a group of her coworkers, wearing the same outfit he saw her wearing this morning when she went to work, a crisp white sleeveless blouse and silky black pants, but she's changed into a pair of stilettos and her hair has been unbraided.

Her hair, which has been described to Stiles as red but he knows the color is really strawberry blond, because he's seen it up close and it's not _just_ red - it's a million shades between gold and crimson, it shimmers when the light hits it and flows down Lydia's back in beautiful soft waves.

That hair is going to be a serious problem but Stiles has more pressing things to worry about right now.

Four feet behind her, leaning up against a window, glass of something in one hand, is the man that has been sent to kill her.

Stiles pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket to check the photo Mason sent him earlier today to confirm that, yep, it's definitely the same guy.

The clock on his phone reads 8:52pm. Stiles quickly sends a text to Isaac, _eyes on our mermaid_ , and immediately he gets a check mark in response.

He deletes the text and pockets his phone before pushing through a crowd of college guys in polos to the far left corner of the room. Erica's standing behind the bar, dressed in a blank tank top with a strategic tear in the middle to show off her bra, and leather shorts.

"Batman," she greets him. "You ready?"

He glances back over his shoulder, making sure Lydia hasn't moved, which she hasn't, completely immersed in conversation with her coworkers and blissfully unaware of the assassin standing behind her.

"Got anything that stains like a bitch?" he asks Erica.

She grins and points to a tray full of drinks. "Way ahead of you."

Stiles peers down at the tray, each glass is full of something purple-red with a shot glass of something else floating in the center. "The hell are those?"

"Burgundy bowls," Erica says smugly. "Red wine with a shot of Redbull."

"You're incredible," Stiles says, watching Erica walk around to the front of the bar.

"Of course I am." Erica leans in and kisses his cheek, and Stiles feels the cool metal of a key get pressed into his palm. "See you on the other side, I guess."

"Thanks Catwoman," he says affectionately. Erica and Boyd are putting a lot on the line for him tonight and he's hyper aware of everything that could go wrong, all the ways other people could get hurt if he doesn't do his job right. 

Erica winks and picks up the tray of drinks before sauntering off in Lydia's direction. Stiles walks to the back of the bar, noting that the assassin hadn't moved from his mark, and pushes through the swinging doors. The back of Leather and Lace opens into an alcove that splits off in three directions: to the left is the stock room and Boyd's office, straight ahead is a short hallway that leads to the back entrance which opens out to the alley, and to the right is the door to the bathrooms.

Stiles steps back towards the left, pressing against the wall so he's in the shadows with a good view of the swinging doors and the entrance to the bathroom.

His phone buzzes, when he pulls it out Stiles notes that it's now 8:56 and he has a new text from Isaac: _ship's in the harbor_. Stiles texts back a checkmark and deletes the text, puts his phone away just as the doors to the front room of the bar swing open and Lydia Martin storms through them, her white shirt absolutely drenched through with purple.

He watches her open the bathroom door with the key Erica must have given her before entering and slamming the door shut behind her. Stiles waits thirty seconds, knowing they have at the most two more minutes, before crossing the alcove and using the key Erica slipped him to unlock the bathroom door and let himself in.

Lydia's standing next to the sink, a wet paper towel in her hand, eyes wide open and terrified.

Stiles shuts the door quickly and locks it before taking a step towards Lydia with empty hands held out so she can see that he's not holding a weapon. "Three things cannot be long hidden."

Her mouth falls open and she blinks rapidly before responding with the words Allison gave her to say. "The sun, the moon, and the truth."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lydia Martin." He reaches out and takes the wad of paper towels out of her hand. 

"You're - him?" she asks shakily. He can tell she's trying not to panic. She's known that this was coming but Stiles and Allison agreed it was better not to let her know exactly when. They knew The Benefactor was watching her and they couldn't risk him finding out what they were doing and moving up the timeline. 

His watch beeps.

"Lydia, I need you to listen to me very carefully, okay? What happens in the next three minutes is the difference between walking out of here alive or leaving in a body bag. I'm going to need you to do exactly as I tell you even if you don't understand why, alright?"

She's staring at him, the color going out of her face, bottom lip beginning to tremble. _Shit_.

"Lydia," he prompts gently. "Do you understand?"

She inhales sharply and nods. "I understand."

"Good." Stiles puts his hands on her shoulders, feeling her startle at his touch. "I'm going to need you to stand over here." He guides her away from the sink so she's standing directly in front of the door and carefully moves her a foot back so there's enough room for someone else to come in.

"Why?" Lydia asks shakily.

The door handle turns against the lock. Lydia gasps, reaching out to clutch at Stiles, who has to push her hands away, standing in between her and the door, which sounds like it's slowly being forced open, lock pick kit probably.

"I need you to trust me," he whispers. "Now close your eyes."

" _What?_ " she hisses.

"Close your eyes," he instructs tightly, and reaches inside his jacket for his Sig.

Lydia lets out a little whimper but obediently shuts her eyes and Stiles retreats, pushing himself into the corner of the bathroom behind the door. He pulls his pistol out of the holster and gets his finger on the trigger, eyes on the door.

The lock pops open and Lydia twitches with her whole body but doesn't open her eyes, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The door swings open, Stiles only waits long enough to confirm that it's him, the assassin working for The Benefactor, before stepping behind him and shooting him through the back of the head. 

Lydia screams as an arc of blood jets out and sprays across her face and chest, exactly like Stiles hoped it would. The assassin's body hits the floor with a thump and Lydia's eyes fly open, looking dazed and terrified.

"It's okay," Stiles says quickly, checking to make sure the door is shut all the way, and steps over the body. "Close your eyes, keep them closed."

She shuts them, her whole body shaking. He carefully puts his hands on her shoulders, mindful not to touch any blood. "Lie down on the floor, please."

Lydia doesn't open her eyes but she shakes her head frantically, reaching up to close her hands around his wrists, her lips pressed tightly together like she's trying to hold back another scream.

"Come on, you can do it," he coaxes, pushing gently on her shoulders. She falls to her knees weakly, he's going to have to be careful she doesn't go into shock. "It's almost over," he promises, sliding his hand under her neck and laying her down on her back. 

Stiles steps back and considers the assassin's body. The guy's a dirty blond, tall, wearing a dark red motorcycle jacket, black gloves, and dark wash jeans. He can hear Lydia starting to hyperventilate, her body lying prone on the floor, beads of blood rolling off her chin and dripping down into her wine-stained cleavage.

"You're doing great, Lydia," he says softly, and kneels down next to the body. "Just stay right there for me."

He finds the phone tucked in an inside pocket of the assassin's jacket next to a Glock. Stiles enters the password Mason decrypted last week and the phone unlocks. Stiles opens the only text thread the phone contains. The message is from The Benefactor, a confirmation of Lydia's name and her dollar amount worth, and the time of the planned kill, 9pm, at Leather and Lace.

He walks back to Lydia and kneels down next to her. Her eyes are squeezed tight and her whole body is trembling. "Lydia, I'm going to move you a little bit, okay?"

She nods, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip when she lets out a broken sob. Her face is half covered in congealing blood, a fresh bead appearing on her bottom lip when she releases it.

"It's okay," he croons, lifting her left arm up above her head, bending it at an odd angle, and drapes the other over her chest. He fans out her hair a bit, drapes a few strands across her eyes. "You don't have to do anything right now except stay just like this, okay? Everything will be fine, I promise."

He gets a wave of deja vu, seeing her like this: so pale, covered in blood, helpless. He inhales sharply and shakes his head, willing the memory away, wondering if some part of Lydia remembers, is subconsciously aware that they've done this before, that Stiles has hovered over her blood drenched body watching her gasp for air like she's doing right now.

Stiles opens the camera app on the phone and stands back up. He walks over to stand next to Lydia's head and holds the phone over her body. "Hold still," he instructs, and takes a picture of her.

It's perfect, really, when he looks at it. She's bone white, which only makes the blood that's splashed and dripping across her face look more lurid. She certainly looks dead enough, her beautiful hair spreading out carelessly on the nasty bathroom floor, lips gently parted like she just took her final breath.

The way they confirm the kill is key. A photo of the body, timestamped, with GPS coordinates, within five minutes of the given kill time.

The only way to get your name off the deadpool is to die.

Stiles opens the text thread back up and sends the photo. And waits forty-five seconds, listening to Lydia gasp shallowly on the floor, his heart slowly exploding in his chest, until the phone dings with a reply.

It's a link and passcode to an offshore bank account, which has just received a transaction in the amount of twenty million dollars.

Stiles exhales, shoulders slumping in relief, and slides the phone into his jacket pocket along with his own. He kneels down next to Lydia and grabs onto her hands. "Okay, you can get up now Lydia."

"It's over?" she mumbles. She sits up as her eyes flutter open and sees the body for the first time. She moans and falls sideways into Stiles, her hands coming up to her blood-sticky face.

"Hey, hey, Lydia." He kneels over her so she can't see the body anymore and pulls her hands away from her face before she can spread too much of the blood around. "Eyes on me, okay? Just keep looking at me."

She nods robotically, wrists limp in his hands, and lets him haul her off the floor and walk her over to the sink. Stiles wets a paper towel and holds it up to her face. He grasps her jaw with his free hand and wipes the blood away while Lydia continues to look at him with dead eyes, like she's sleepwalking. 

He's read a lot about them, banshees, at least what's even available, and half of _that_ information comes from government files Danny managed to get copies of (god bless Danny and his superior hacking skills). He knows that banshees are prone to dissociation, especially after screaming, something about their human mind's instinct to protect them from the supernatural trauma of feeling death.

When her face is relatively clean Stiles drops the paper towels over the assassin's face and reaches down to grip her hand. "Time to go," he tells her.

When he opens the door Boyd is waiting in the hallway, arms crossed against his chest. His eyes scan Lydia and he raises an eyebrow at Stiles. "You leave a mess in my bathroom?"

"My bad, man." Stiles pats Boyd's shoulder before reaching into his jacket pocket and handing over the assassin's phone. "In an hour a guy named Mason is going to come in and sit at the bar by himself and order a strawberry margarita. This is for him, okay?"

Boyd just nods and pockets the phone, taciturn as ever. Stiles feels a flash of validation, he knew he could trust Boyd and Erica.

Lydia lets out a little ghost of a sigh next to him and he tightens his hand around hers. "If you'll excuse us, we're kind of on a tight schedule here." 

He has to get Lydia out of here before one of her colleagues from the lab comes looking for her, she's been gone for almost seven minutes.

"Good luck," Boyd says simply, and rolls up his sleeves.

"You too."

Boyd's fingertips grasp the door handle before he shoots Stiles a pensive look. "And you'll..."

"I'll ask," Stiles confirms. He doesn't want to make a promise he can't deliver on but he thinks he can talk Derek into it.

Boyd juts his chin towards the exit. "You better go."

Stiles watches Boyd let himself into the bathroom before turning Lydia around and walking her briskly down the hallway to the back door. Stiles pushes it open to lead her outside, dark except for a flickering streetlight down at the end of the alley.

The Camaro is parked right outside and Stiles internally fist punches the air. There are two parts of the plan that are high risk, and unless Isaac did something exceptionally stupid like forget to leave him the ignition key they just survived the first part free and clear.

Stiles bends down next to the front driver's side tire and finds the keys hidden exactly where Isaac said he'd leave them. Stiles grins and scoops them into his fist. He walks Lydia around to the passenger side, hand firm on her bare arm, and opens the door for her. She's limp against him, he has to practically push her into the car and do her seatbelt for her. He shuts her car door before jogging back around to the driver's side and getting in.

"So Lydia," he announces. "As you may have deduced, I'm Stiles Stilinski; Allison hired me to extract you."

Lydia blinks at him slowly. Her eyes are really unbelievably green in person but right now they're bloodshot and unfocused. She doesn't say anything, just tilts her head back against the headrest and nods.

Stiles figures that given everything that's happened to her in the past ten minutes it's a totally appropriate reaction. He starts the car and turns the headlights on, pulls the Camaro out of the alley and onto the street. Stiles drives carefully out of Beacon Hills, driving exactly the speed limit. Not that getting pulled over would necessarily be a huge problem here but there's no way Stiles is getting his dad involved (directly at least) this late into the game while they're still in the state.

He figures they've got the standard twenty-four hours if not the weekend before Lydia's coworkers report her missing and the one thing they absolutely can't screw up - the bar has to be the last place she's seen, otherwise word could leak back to The Benefactor and there will be hell to pay. 

He feels comfortable enough to speed up when they reach the outer limits of Beacon County. Lydia shifts around in the seat, staring blankly out the window. "Where are we going?"

Stiles glances over at her, it's the first thing she's said since they left Leather and Lace. Her face is hidden by her hair, all he can see is the curve of her cheek. "Monterey," he answers. 

She stiffens. "I thought we were going to Scott and Allison's."

"We are," he confirms. "We're just going to spend the night. There are few things I have to take care of before we're ready to cross the border."

"Oh," she whispers, and doesn't say another word.

Stiles follows the route he and Isaac worked out up the coast to Monterey and their destination for the night, The Foxhole Motel, a small chain owned by HaleStone Hotels. He pulls the Camaro into the parking lot around the back of the motel and parks next to a black Subaru Forester. 

"I need to take care of something," Stiles tells Lydia. "Stay in the car, I'll be right back."

She doesn't look happy about it but she nods in agreement, her hands twisted up in her lap. Stiles gets out of the car and locks her in before opening the door of the Forester and swinging himself into the passenger seat.

"How's the mermaid?" Isaac asks, sprawled back in the driver's seat, one long leg crossed over the other, looking curiously past Stiles where Lydia is sitting inside the Camaro.

"Scared. In shock. Probably completely traumatized," Stiles mutters. "But not dead."

"That's what matters, right?" Isaac says cheerfully.

Stiles sighs and rubs his temples. "I hate this part."

"Hey." Isaac uses the toe of his shoe to poke Stiles in the thigh. "You saved her life."

"I know. Doesn't mean I feel good about what I had to do."

Isaac wrinkles his nose. "You feel guilty."

"Ugh, you're worse than Scott." Stiles slaps Isaac on the shoulder. "Come on, I've got a girl in the car who really needs a shower."

Isaac gets out of the way and Stiles files suit, walks around the car and watches Isaac open the trunk of the Forrester. Stiles spots his duffle bag and pulls it out, watching as Isaac grabs a huge brown patterned leather weekender.

"This one's hers." Isaac unzips the bag to show Stiles an inside pocket. "All her papers are in there." 

Stiles checks to makes sure everything is there before closing the bag, fingering the zipper stamped with an LV logo. _Louis Vuitton_ ; real subtle Cora. Isaac reaches back into the car and pulls out a plastic bag from CVS. "Cora said you needed this."

"Thanks Isaac." Stiles shoulders their duffles and takes the bag from Isaac. "For everything."

Isaac shrugs. "I'm unregistered. It's not like Scott or Derek could do it."

"Still," Stiles acknowledges. "Let's keep it that way."

"It's nice to be needed," Isaac says flippantly.

"I'm just saying, I know you didn't have to." 

"I wanted to help, you know that." Isaac grins. "It's cool, besides, I get to drive the Camaro."

Stiles laughs, hoarse and grating. "There is that."

"Here." Isaac digs into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out an electronic key card. "Last room on the end. You're already checked in. And if you need help they've got a chimera working the night shift. Hayden something."

Stiles perks up, he's never met a chimera before. "Really?"

"She works at The HaleStone, Cora loaned her out for the night, arranged her work visa and everything. I believe she said that she's for emergencies only."

"Gotta love a girl who thinks of everything," Stiles says fondly. "How'd she find a chimera?"

"She's that Liam kid's girlfriend."

Stiles nods and rolls his neck, the weight of his Sig heavy against his ribs. "You going straight to Scott and Allison's?"

Isaac shakes his head. "Vegas. Check in on the HaleStone Casino, officially for Derek, you know, just in case."

"Backup?" Stiles asks sharply.

"Kira'll be there but I go once a month anyway so if anyone's watching it'll look standard," Isaac explains.

"You'll be back for the party though, right?"

"Are you kidding?" Isaac flashes him a smile. "Like I'd miss that. Catch."

Isaac tosses the keys to the Subaru at him and Stiles almost face plants but manages to catch them between his fingers. 

"Dick," he says, and unlocks the Camaro before chucking Derek's keys at Isaac's head. Isaac laughs and catches them easily, giving him a cocky smirk before twirling them around his finger.

Stiles walks around to the passenger side and opens Lydia's door. She startles, whipping her head around to stare at him, her face still so pale. "Time to get out," Stiles says softly, offering his hand to help her out of the car.

Lydia stumbles when she gets to her feet, still wearing those stupid heels, reaching for Stiles and looking over his shoulder at Isaac, who's waiting to take the Camaro. "Who is that?" she whispers.

"A friend," Stiles tells her. "Come on, let's get you inside."

He herds Lydia up onto the sidewalk and down to the last room on the end. He unlocks the door with the keycard Isaac gave him and pulls Lydia inside before locking the door shut behind them and turning on the light.

The room is small but clean, two full sized beds along one wall with hunter green comforters, a single dresser with a flatscreen tv hung above it against the opposite wall. Stiles drops his duffle on the floor against one of the beds and Lydia's by the other. She's standing in the middle of the room, her whole body shaking but her spine is held ramrod straight anyway, a helpless expression on her face, her shirt still soaked through with a nasty mixture of Red Bull, wine, and blood.

"I want to talk to Allison," Lydia demands.

"Yeah, of course." Stiles takes off his jacket and checks that the safety is on the Sig before putting the gun down on the dresser. He gets his phone out of his jacket and pulls up Allison's contact information before passing the phone over.

Lydia snatches it out of his hands, looking suspicious, like she can't believe it was that easy. She takes the phone into the bathroom and slams the door shut before emphatically locking it. 

Stiles shakes his head and sinks down on one of the beds. He feels jumpy and vaguely nauseous now that he doesn't have something distinct to focus on. He counts his fingers a few times just to calm himself down before opening the duffle Cora packed for him. It's mostly clothes, a clean pair of jeans and a few shirts, a five pack of boxer briefs still wrapped in plastic, a pair of sweatpants, and buried at the bottom: a fifth of whisky with a post-it note slapped over the label, _you're welcome_ scrawled in purple sharpie.

Stiles makes a mental note to buy Cora something very pretty and out of his price range the next time he has a chance and opens the bottle. He takes a long pull, feeling the liquor settle warm and heavy in his stomach, warmth flooding his veins. He takes another swig before tightening the cap and putting the whiskey away, pulling out the sweatpants and ripping off the price tag.

The bathroom door opens and Lydia hovers in the doorway, his phone in the palm of her outstretched hand. "I need to shower," she says quietly.

"Okay." Stiles takes the phone back and Lydia slams the door shut again. A minute later he hears the water turn on.

Stiles goes back to the bed, peels off his shirt and jeans and changes into the new sweatpants. His phone starts to vibrate on the bed, when he unlocks it he has a text from Mason confirming that he got the assassin's phone from Boyd. He's going to mine it for whatever data he can decrypt before disposing of it. Stiles gets the remote off the dresser and turns the tv on, scrolling through until he gets to the local news. Nothing of interest of course, but he checks the weather too, and the border report - normal, paper checkpoints but nothing overly stringent or atypical.

He sinks back down on the edge of the bed, idly playing with his phone. After a while (and another swig of whiskey because he can't seem to quite calm down, heart skittering in his chest, remembering the sound of the body hitting the ground) he realizes that Lydia's been in the shower for over twenty minutes.

He crosses over to the bathroom door and knocks. "Lydia?"

There's no response. Stiles' chest tightens and he knocks again. "Lydia, if you don't say something I'm going to open the door so consider yourself warned."

The only response is the steady rain of the shower. It takes him less than thirty seconds to pop the lock open and Stiles makes a mental note to tell Cora about it later. He lets himself into the bathroom, breathing in steam. The glass door to the shower is closed and dripping with condensation. He opens it slowly, having the brief morbid thought of going through all of this to save Lydia just for her to-

He doesn't have to finish the thought, _thank fuck_ , because Lydia is sitting in the corner of the shower with her back against the tiled wall, naked, knees pulled up to her chest. Her hair is slicked back from her face and her eyes are huge when she lifts her head to look at him, beads of water clinging to her eyelashes and the cupid's bow of her upper lip.

She parts her mouth, her tongue flicks out and licks the drop of water off her lip. "Stiles?"

Her voice is tremulous, so soft he can barely hear her over the fall of the water, running cold by now. Stiles reaches into the shower to turn it off and grabs a clean towel from the rack on the wall. He sinks on his knees in front of Lydia, who's shivering, curled up like she's trying to take up as little space as possible.

"Hey," Stiles whispers. "Time to get out, okay?"

She blinks heavily at him, like she could fall asleep right here. "How much?"

"How much what?"

"How much was I worth?" 

Stiles reaches out carefully, trying not to startle her, and manages to wrap the towel around her shoulders. "Twenty million," he says softly.

Her eyes slam shut and she inhales, choking on a little noise. "He was going to kill me."

Stiles gets his hand between her back and the wall, uses his newfound leverage to push her a little closer to him. "Yes," he says gently. "But he didn't."

Her eyes open and Stiles' heart clenches a little, because she looks so beautiful, even like this, face and chest scrubbed raw, her eyes glassy. "You saved me," she whispers.

"Yeah," he murmurs.

Her brow furrows and she reaches out with cold wet hands to brush at his cheekbones with her thumbs. "Have I seen you before?"

Stiles swallows. "I'm Scott's best friend, I'm not sure if Allison ever told you that. You've probably seen pictures of me on Facebook and stuff."

Her fingers trail across his shoulders. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I don't know what's wrong with me. You just..." She shivers and looks away. "Never mind."

"Hey, c'mere, you're okay." He slowly pries her hands from her kneecaps and guides them up to his neck before sliding his arm under her knees. "Hold on," he instructs, and somehow manages to pick her up without slipping on the wet floor of the shower and breaking both of their necks. 

"I didn't think that it would be like this," she whispers into his collarbone, like it's a secret.

Naked and soaking wet in the arms of a stranger who killed someone three inches away from her an hour ago? No, she probably didn't anticipate this.

Stiles sets her down gently and re-wraps the towel around her, studiously not looking down at all that exposed wet skin. "What did Allison tell you?"

Lydia tips her head back, like she's just too tired to hold it up anymore. "Just that someone - you- would be coming for me. She told me what you would say so I knew it was you, and what to say back." She blinks furiously suddenly. "She didn't tell me anything else."

"Jesus," Stiles mutters. "Look I'm sorry about that, I think the idea was" -

"The less I knew the more contained the plan was," she interrupts.

Stiles reaches over her shoulder for a second towel and gently squeezes her wet hair through it. "Yeah."

Lydia reaches up and catches his wrist with her fingers. He looks down at her and he can tell that she's had enough for one night, for as strong as she is (and Stiles has read her extended file, he knows Lydia Martin is one tough-ass motherfucker) she's close to reaching her breaking point.

"Come on," he says softly, lowering his arm and throwing the towel over the top of the shower door. "I have clothes for you."

He walks her out of the bathroom and over to the duffle Cora packed for her. Lydia sinks down on the bed, towel riding dangerously high up on her thighs. She doesn't appear to have any interest in what's in the duffle, staring blankly ahead at the black screen of the tv, so Stiles opens it for her.

There's a rather gorgeous cream leather jacket folded on top of everything else so he pulls that out, tosses it to hang on the back of one of the little chairs by the window, revealing a pair of skinny jeans folded underneath, a few simple soft camisoles, a dark blue tee shirt dress with little flowers printed on it. 

Stiles finds a five pack of lacy multicolored panties and tears open the plastic, his cheeks flushing, and blindly choses a pair and puts them up on the bed next to Lydia. He digs past a cosmetics bag and some kind of hair iron to reveal a pair of yoga pants and a soft white tee shirt (pale pink cotton bra folded thoughtfully up the sleeve) and adds them to the underwear before standing up and turning around.

There's a soft rustling of fabric as Lydia changes. He hears the zipper of her bag being closed and then the scratch of bare feet over the thin carpet. Stiles starts to turn and jumps when cold fingers close around his hips. He turns the rest of the way to find her half-dressed, the shirt long enough to brush the tops of her thighs, wet hair tucked behind her ears.

"Hey," Stiles says, suddenly totally aware of her body, the soft curve of her waist, the suggestion of cleavage peeking out of the shirt. "You, um, are not wearing pants. Which, cool, sleep in whatever you're comfortable in, I mean, I'm not wearing a shirt, and seriously, I don't even know what I'm saying, sorry, the adrenaline crash is kinda scrambling my brain a little."

Lydia doesn't say anything, just stands there staring at him like he's babbling in Klingon. She's still holding onto him, palms curving over his hip bones, because Stiles didn't put on a shirt and now her cold little hands are approximately two inches away from his dick.

Jesus, he needs to crash soon. Stiles likes to think of himself as a professional, the kind of person who gets shit done, regardless of potential distractions. He's not sixteen and awkward and sexually frustrated all the time anymore, pretty girls don't unravel him now, the way she's starting to.

Most girls aren't quite as pretty as Lydia Martin though. And no girl has ever looked at him quite like this either, like she's vulnerable and placing all of her trust in him, even if it scares her to do so.

Stiles reaches down and gently pulls her hands away, linking their fingers together instead. "Lydia, are you okay?"

Lydia nods and tries to smile but her eyes fill up with tears. "I'm really tired, Stiles," she whispers, and a tear rolls out of the corner of her eye.

"Okay," he says softly, reaching out to run his hand over her bare arm without even thinking about it. He leads her to one of the beds, flips the comforter back and watches her climb in, one of her hands still clutching his.

He starts to pull away but Lydia says, "Don't," in this thin, reedy voice, her other hand reaching up to grip his wrist. "Please," she whispers, tilting her head back a little to blink back tears.

"Okay," he exhales shakily. "Give me one minute, okay?"

He watches her consider this, bottom lip pulled in between her teeth, before she nods quickly and releases him. He uses the bathroom, splashes cold water over his face before picking up the pile of Lydia's bloody stained clothes and placing them in the little trash can, taking the plastic trash bag out of the wicker basket and knotting it off.

Back in the room Lydia's waiting on the bed, bare legs crossed under her. She's only wearing that plain white tee shirt, her hair still wet and all her makeup has been scrubbed off but there's something so regal about her anyway, the way she sits on the cheap motel bed like she's sitting on a throne.

Stiles crosses the room and turns off the lamp, bathing the room in darkness save for the sliver of light from the streetlamp outside coming in from behind the curtains. Stiles digs the whiskey bottle out of his duffle and carries it over to the bed. He sits down next to her and holds it out. "Here, this'll help you sleep."

She doesn't even ask what's in it, just takes a huge swig and swallows, coughs hard and then lets out a shaky laugh before handing the bottle back to him. Stiles gulps some down (it's been a rough day, okay?) and sets the bottle down on the floor. 

Lydia slides down on the bed and curls over onto her side, pulling her legs up to her chest. "Stiles?"

His head is starting to throb. He hasn't been sleeping lately, can't when he's in the advanced stages of planning, and it's starting to catch up with him. "Yeah?"

She reaches out and brushes her fingertips over the back of his hand. "Allison said that I can trust you." Lydia's eyes are wide and probing, like she's searching for something, some hidden clue in the puzzle of his facial features. "Was she right?"

Stiles exhales slowly and sinks down on his back against the pillows, kicking his feet under the covers before pulling the blanket up over both of them. "Yeah, she's right," he says quietly. "But I think that's something you can decide for yourself."

The answer must satisfy her because she slides a little closer to him and murmurs, "Okay."

Stiles swallows, acutely aware that he is in bed with a girl he doesn't really know, a client (okay, technically Allison is the client, but Lydia is the girl Allison hired him to save, which is even worse). "You should get some sleep," he whispers. "We have a long day tomorrow."

Lydia's eyes drift shut, her toes brushing his leg. "The border?"

"It's going to be okay," he assures her softly. "I have a plan."

"Better be a good one," she sighs.

"It is."

"I'm so tired," she whispers.

"Go to sleep."

She nods obediently, her damp hair spreading over the pillowcase. "Will you..."

"Yeah," he says gently. "I'll be right here."

It only takes her a few minutes to fall asleep. Between the adrenaline crash and the whiskey she's totally out, breathing so shallowly he holds his palm up to her mouth just to feel the air pass by her lips as she exhales. Stiles slides back up a few inches, reaches over the edge of the bed and finds the whiskey bottle, pulls it up to take a sip before plunking it down on the nightstand.

He leans his head back and closes his eyes, Lydia a warm soft weight against his side. He exhales through a wave of nausea, seeing the body fall over and over again, the spray of blood, her scream.

The gentle warning Scott gave him when they said goodbye repeating on a loop in his head: _whatever you do, do it carefully_.

*

Stiles gets dragged back to consciousness by an annoying repetitive buzzing, like a fly, two inches from his head. He reaches out and smacks his phone before picking it up and swiping the screen to turn the alarm off. It's seven in the morning, his head is pounding like a bitch and coffee is definitely imminent.

Lydia Martin is curled up in a ball under the covers sleeping, her face mashed against the pillow, her hair a tangle of red waves gleaming against the green coverlet. Stiles takes a moment to admire it, how the early morning sunlight makes her hair light up like a forest fire, a riot of red and orange and gold.

It's too bad really, but what can he do? Everyone he talked to while building her profile (Literally. Everyone. Her old college adviser, her boss at the lab, the barista at the coffee shop she frequents, etcetera, etcetera) had mentioned her hair before anything else. It's her most recognizable feature. 

He sneaks off to the bathroom and takes a cold shower, which marginally wakes him up. He eyes the trash bag filled with her bloody clothes and decides it's too much to deal with right now and busies himself with getting dressed instead, yanking on a charcoal grey henley before pulling on the jeans Cora bought (which fit perfectly, he doesn't know how Cora got his size but he's grateful) and then gets a flash of sticker shock when he rips off the price tag - who spends _two hundred dollars_ on a pair of jeans?

Cora Hale, that's who. Stiles remembers the leather jacket he found in Lydia's duffle and groans internally. He hadn't bothered giving Cora a budget because a) it hadn't occurred to him, and b) Allison may have hired him but the Hales are bankrolling this particular mission anyway.

There's a coffeemaker on a side table in their room, a hotel brand bag of coffee and a sleeve of filters in a little wicker basket with packets of creamer. Stiles sets it to make a full pot and sits down in one of the little chairs near the window. Lydia wakes up as the coffee brews, slowly with a little stretch and then dramatically, sitting up and inhaling sharply, looking dazed, like she forgot where she was for a second, like maybe last night had just been a dream.

"Hey," Stiles says, trying to sound casual and calm. He needs her to trust him, he needs her to believe that he can get her through today or this will never work. "You want coffee?"

Lydia wrinkles her forehead. "Coffee?" she parrots hoarsely, voice thick with sleep, and rubs her eyes. "Fuck, what time is it?"

"Almost seven-thirty."

She exhales mournfully but nods and crawls out of bed; Stiles turns his attention to pouring her a cup of coffee so he doesn't catch the entire flash of her bare thigh as she climbs down.

He passes a mug to her and slides a few creamers across the table. Lydia stirs them into her coffee while Stiles pours another cup for himself, gulps down half of it in one scalding sip but it's worth it because _caffeine_. Lydia takes a few small delicate sips before straightening up in her chair and fixing him with a stare.

"I suppose we should talk about the plan," she says. "You do have a plan, right?"

Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes, does she seriously think they would've gotten this far if he didn't? He's the freaking _master_ of plans. He leans back in his chair, hands curled around his mug. "What do you know about the deadpool?"

She flinches. "It's a supernatural hit list. I don't..." Lydia trails off, looking out the window. "I don't know how I got on it." She takes another sip of coffee and tucks a stray wave behind her ear. "I've heard the rumors though."

Stiles fills his mug back up to the top. "Which ones?" 

The Benefactor is somewhat of a ghost story - plenty of people have heard of him but no one has ever met him. Getting access to Lydia's assassin's bank account means Mason can at least attempt to follow the money, it's the closest they've come to tracking The Benefactor down.

"That it's not so secretly government sanctioned. That the state is leaking the registry to the highest bidder." Lydia shrugs delicately. "That the state of California is funding a secret organization whose purpose is to eliminate those deemed to be a supernatural threat."

"We don't have any proof of that," Stiles comments. "At least, not yet."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she snaps. "We still have to cross the border."

Stiles nods. "Yeah, we should talk about that."

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "What is it that you do again?"

"What I _do?_ "

"What is your field of employment?" she asks caustically. "What makes you qualified to illegally take me into Oregon without getting caught at the border?"

Stiles whistles lowly. "Anyone ever tell you you've got trust issues?"

"I'm putting my life in your hands, my question is justified."

He leans across the table towards her. "I saved your life last night, that not good enough for you?"

She blanches, like she's just remembered. "They - they think I'm dead, right?"

"The Benefactor does," he confirms. "But officially you still exist. I'm assuming your coworkers will call the police by Monday when you don't show up at the lab. The cops will declare you missing; eventually, when they don't find you they'll declare it a cold case."

Lydia suddenly looks pale. "So how do you plan to get me out of the state then?"

"We developed a cover for you."

"We?"

"Allison and I. With some help." Stiles get up from the table and walks over to her duffle and pulls her new passport out of the zippered pocket. "Welcome back to the States, Ariel Argent."

Lydia's eyebrows shoot up and she reaches out to snatch the passport out of his hands. "I'm a French national?"

"With a green card," Stiles assures her. "You're Allison's second cousin on Chris's side."

"Human status?" she asks wryly.

"Of course."

Lydia stares at him. "You created a new identity for me?"

Stiles smirks, just a little. "I told you I had a plan."

She starts flipping through the passport. "This was issued six years ago."

"Yep."

"There are _stamps_ in it."

Stiles nods, reaching out to smooth out the little pages. "Ariel Argent works for Argent Industries and travels to the US for business frequently. There are records of your work visas in the system as well as your green card application, which was approved three weeks ago, congratulations."

Lydia is still examining the passport, looking shocked. "How?"

He shrugs. "I know some useful people."

"Clearly," she murmurs. She flips to the last stamp, LAX, three days ago, and traces a finger around it. "So I'm Allison's cousin and I'm in the country for...her engagement party?"

"Got it in one," Stiles confirms.

She frowns slightly. "What about you?"

"I'm still me. I've got human status obviously, and I drive up to see Scott all the time, so nothing suspicious about that. I'm his best friend, it would be more suspicious if I didn't." He flips back the pages of her passport to show her another LAX stamp dated two years ago. "You and I officially met when you were in the country for Allison's college graduation party."

"Let me guess, we hit it off?" she says dryly.

Stiles shrugs. "It makes sense. I'm Scott's best friend, you and Allison are cousins, you visit all the time."

Lydia traces the stamp, leaning in to read the date before offering him the tiniest fraction of a smile. "It's our two year anniversary then."

"Oh," he replies, not prepared for the way his heart stutters at her words. "Well, happy anniversary then."

Something flashes across her face, too quick to decipher, before she looks away. "So we pretend we're taking a romantic road trip up the coast for the engagement party?" She finishes her coffee and holds out her mug to him for a refill. "I suppose that shouldn't be difficult to sell."

"The important thing is the passport and all your papers. They're legit, we shouldn't have any problems."

"Alright," she says apprehensively. "Anything else?"

"Well," Stiles says tentatively. "There is one more thing."

He flips back to the front of the passport and shows her the picture they used. Lydia's mouth drops open and she glares at him. "Absolutely not."

"Lydia" -

"No," she snarls. "Not happening."

"Lydia," he says. "Come on. I can't take you like this."

"Do you even know what virgin hair is?" she says acidly, one of her hands coming up protectively over her head, like she's worried he's going to tear it out by the root.

"Lydia, do you know how many people will be on the lookout for a redhead in the next few days? Not happening."

"I did not agree to this," she hisses, looking like she wants to throw her coffee cup at him.

"You know what, Lydia? You can be a brunette alive in Oregon or a redhead dead in a grave in California, your choice."

She looks murderous but she doesn't respond, just crosses her arms over her chest and stares out the window. Stiles sighs and gets out of his chair, turns off the coffeemaker and rolls his shoulders. "Look, I'm sorry. I know this must be really hard for you and you're probably completely overwhelmed, but it's just something we have to do, okay?"

"Fine," she mutters. "Let's just get this over with." She stands up and brings her mug up to her mouth and drains it before slamming in down on the table.

Stiles grabs the plastic bag Isaac gave him last night and tilts his head towards the bathroom. "Come on then."

Lydia follows him, a scowl marring her lovely features. Stiles flips on the lights and sets the bag down on the bathroom counter. He reaches inside and pulls out a pair of scissors and a box of hair dye in a shade called soft mahogany brown, the text rippling over a picture of a topless model with hair the color of chocolate cascading over her face.

Lydia yanks her shirt off over her head wordlessly and stands in front of the sink in the pale pink bra and baby blue lace boy shorts, her beautiful hair tumbling down her shoulders. Stiles freezes next to her, trapped staring at her reflection in the mirror: perfect pale skin, a flat stomach, the curving flare of her hips. She's looking at herself, nose inches away from the mirror. She reaches up and combs her hair back with her fingers purposefully, closing her eyes for a moment, like she's preparing to say goodbye.

Lydia sighs and turns to look at him. "Hand me a towel?"

Stiles pass her one and she wraps it around her shoulders, eyeing the scissors distastefully. "Do you have to cut it?"

"Not all of it." He steps behind her and holds his hand up around her shoulders. "Maybe to here?"

She exhales sharply but she nods, looking at him in the mirror. "You should probably cut it before dying it."

"Shouldn't it be wet first?"

"You put the dye on dry hair. You can cut it dry, it's fine, I'll be able to see how it falls that way anyway."

Stiles isn't exactly sure what that means but the point is she's giving him permission, so he reaches for the scissors with one hand, smoothing his free hand over her hair with the other before grabbing the trash can and placing it on the floor against Lydia's heels.

"Wait." Lydia reaches up and grips his wrist. "Don't cut straight across."

"Okay."

"Like this," she demonstrates, holding her fingers at a slight angle. "See?"

"Yeah, okay."

"I mean it, don't cut straight across. Think more like the letter 'U', less like a straight line. And if you cut in layers I will murder you with those scissors," she threatens.

Stiles cups his free hand over her towel-draped shoulder. "Lydia, I promise I won't fuck up your hair, alright?" 

She gives him a rather despondent look in the mirror but nods her head in consent. "Alright."

Stiles pauses for a moment to really admire it, the shimmering red gold against the white of a towel, like the light of a flame in a valley of snow. He takes a deep breath, combs the ends of her hair with his free hand and begins to cut. It only takes a few minutes to cut off about four inches so that her hair floats around her shoulders instead of hanging halfway down her back.

He puts the scissors down and uses his fingers to fluff her hair a little, catching the little reluctant smile on her lips. "There," he says. "It's not terrible, right?"

"It's not awful," she agrees. "I'm going to angle it a little."

Before Stiles can ask what that means she's picking up the scissors. She holds them diagonally and snips the front pieces of her hair so they graze her chin and collarbone. Lydia puts the scissors down, shakes her hair out, picks the scissors back up and cuts a few tiny strands before repeating the whole process a few more times.

"I suppose that'll do," she says, and averts her eyes, but not before Stiles can see the sheen of tears in them.

"Lydia"-

"It's fine." She shrugs away from his touch, sniffing delicately and reaching for the box of hair dye. "I can mix this if you'll apply it?"

"Sure," he agrees. There's something tender beating under his ribs for her, seeing her like this, so vulnerable but trying not to show it, blinking back tears as she pulls on a pair of thin plastic gloves and begins mixing the contents of a tube labeled colorant into a bottle labeled developer.

Lydia places the tip of her finger over the opening in the bottle and shakes it in her hand like she's mixing a cocktail before putting it down and peeling off the gloves. She puts the lid down on the toilet and sits, rearranging the towel so it's covering the back of her neck and the tops of her shoulders, looking at him expectantly.

Stiles takes the gloves and puts them on, skims the little folded paper printed with instructions before picking up the bottle of developer. He walks over and stands in front of Lydia, who bows her head slightly.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Ready?"

"Try not to get any on my skin, it'll be a bitch to wash off," she tells him.

"Got it." Stiles spreads one hand flat over the side of her head and squeezes the dye over the part in her hair. It comes out a weird shade of purple-brown but Lydia doesn't seem concerned so he uses his gloved fingers to smear the dye around the roots of her hair.

He repeats the process until all the dye is in her hair. He squeezes her hair through his hands, combing through the strands with his gloved fingers to make sure it's evenly coated. Lydia is sitting perfectly still, eyes shut, hands clasped and laying in her lap.

Stiles combs his fingers through her hair a final time, making sure every strand of red is covered before using his teeth to peel the gloves off, peering back at the instructions. "Okay, it says to let that sit for twenty minutes and then you can wash it out."

"I'll set a timer," she says, and makes an aborted movement with her hand before dropping it back in her lap, a flash of horror flaring in her eyes, because clearly she forgot for a moment that she doesn't have a phone anymore, it was abandoned in her purse on a table back at Leather and Lace.

"I'll do it," Stiles says gently, and sets the timer on his phone, watching her duck her head and tuck her chin toward her shoulder, like an injured bird.

Or a young woman who's about to walk away from her life forever with nothing but clothes purchased by the glamorous hotelier and werewolf Cora Hale. Stiles considers the fact that if Lydia knew who bought the clothes she probably wouldn't even touch them, but there's nothing to be done about that.

Stiles picks up the wastebasket and opens the bag with her clothes from yesterday, tips the strands of hair into the trash bag before re-knotting it, making sure that he didn't miss a stray hair anywhere on the floor or the counter.

Lydia follows him back out to the room, sitting carefully on the edge of one of the beds. Stiles packs up his things and turns the tv on, checks traffic, the border report, and flips it to the local news. When the timer on his phone goes off Lydia disappears into the bathroom with the Louis Vuitton bag and a minute later Stiles hears the shower turn on.

He makes sure they have everything packed, runs a reverent hand over his Sig Sauer before tucking the gun in the waistband of his jeans. Stiles inhales through his nose and exhales slowly, peeking out the window to make sure the car is still where Isaac parked it last night.

When Lydia comes out half an hour later she's wearing the blue dress and her hair falls in glossy chocolate brown waves to her shoulders. She's wearing makeup too, her eyebrows have been darkened and her lips are painted cherry red. She looks like Snow White, Stiles thinks, with that pale skin, the contrast heightened by the darker hair.

"You look beautiful," he blurts out stupidly.

She lifts her head to look at him, frowning slightly. "I don't even recognize myself."

"That's kind of the point," he reminds her.

"Believe me, I'm aware of that." She picks up the leather jacket from the back of the chair and shrugs it on. 

Stiles picks up both their duffles and scoops up the room key. "Time to go."

He throws the bags in the trunk of the Subaru and walks around to the lobby of the motel, Lydia close at his side. There's a baby-faced brunette sitting behind the front desk reading a chemistry textbook, a pink highlighter twirling between her fingers. 

Her head snaps up as soon as the heels of Lydia's shoes hit the lobby floor; she must be the chimera because no human has hearing that good. She flashes them a friendly smile, dropping the highlighter onto her book, a coffee thermos at her elbow. "Welcome to The Foxhole Motel, how can I help you this morning?"

"Checking out." Stiles slides the keycard across the desk.

"Just a moment, please." She flashes him a tight smile and spins in her chair to type something into a computer. He can see her name scrawled over the inside cover of her book, _property of Hayden Romero_ written in gel pen. 

Stiles watches her work, idly wondering at her genetics. Chimeras are incredibly rare, the NIH only got their government grant a few years ago to study the affects of werewolf stem cell transplants on humans. It's not standard procedure yet, probably won't be for a long time. If this girl is a chimera she must have been selected as a test subject, which means she had to have been either incredibly injured or seriously ill.

"Mr. Stilinski?"

"Yeah," he affirms, offering her a friendly smile.

"Your room has already been paid for," she informs him. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Uh, yeah, actually." He glances over his shoulder; Lydia's perched on the arm of a chair in the middle of the empty lobby, looking elegant and bored. "There's a bag of trash in my room that needs to be disposed of as soon as possible."

"Of course, no problem."

Stiles leans against the counter. "I need it to be disposed _thoroughly_."

She nods seriously. "I understand. Anything else?"

He shakes his head. "That's it." 

Hayden glances over his shoulder, where Lydia is waiting, legs dangling from the arm of the chair. Hayden reaches across the table and holds her hand out to him. "Good luck," she says, her voice heavy.

Stiles shakes her hand, small and warm in his own, yet he can feel the strength in those fine bones, she could probably crush his hand without breaking a sweat. "Thank you."

Hayden shakes her head. "Cora told me - well, lets just say I wanted to help." Something dark flashes behind her eyes. "It's just not right, you know?"

"Yeah," Stiles sighs. "I know." He starts to walk away but can't help himself, turns around and goes back to the desk. "Actually, one more question."

"Shoot," Hayden says.

"Okay I know this is none of my business, but I just have to ask, I'm sorry, I'm just really really interested - what did they use? Because I've heard all kinds of things but I've never actually met one of you before and the process is seriously so interesting, so I was just wondering. You know, if you don't mind answering a totally personal question."

She blinks at him innocently. "Use?"

"The doctors." Stiles drops his voice. "When they turned you - I was wondering where the stem cells were from."

"Oh." Her cheeks flush a little. "Werewolf and werejaguar."

"Wow," Stiles says, impressed. "You must have some serious skills."

Hayden laughs a little and flashes gold eyes at him, just for a second. "It's not all bad."

Stiles nods absently, smiling, thinking about Scott, how his life was changed irrevocably after being bit, but then again, no asthma, and he wouldn't have met Allison. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

*

They get to San Francisco around ten-thirty in the morning. Stiles finds a public parking garage on the edge of Chinatown that boasts an $18/per hour fee but he has a black card with the name Derek Hale on it so Stiles drives the Subaru up to the fourth level and parks the car.

He goes around to the trunk and opens it, digs Lydia's passport out of her new designer bag and hands it to her. "This stays in your jacket pocket, okay? You _cannot_ lose this."

She looks a little annoyed at the reminder but she just rolls her eyes and zips it into her pocket. "You really think they're checking papers in San Francisco, the most anti-registry city in the state, randomly on the sidewalk?"

Stiles shrugs, checking the position of the Sig before pulling on his jacket and locking the car. "Just because the city is against the registry doesn't mean they don't follow the law."

Lydia's got her head tilted at him, like she's evaluating something. "You're a little paranoid," she declares.

"Better to be paranoid than careless."

"True," she agrees. "What are we doing here, anyway?"

"Gotta see a friend," he says, lightly gripping her elbow to lead her to the elevator.

"You seem to have a lot of friends," she comments.

Stiles hits the down button, watching the parking lot disappear as the doors slide close. "Let's just say you were a high priority. Lots of people wanted to help."

"Oh." She looks a little surprised. "You know, you never told me what it is you do."

"I'm a consultant."

The doors ding open and they walk out the elevator and through a glass door out onto the street.

"What kind of consultant?" Lydia asks, walking next to him on the sidewalk.

Stiles shrugs lightly. "People come to me with certain problems and I tell them how to fix it."

"Supernatural problems?" she asks shrewdly.

"Sometimes," he replies vaguely, which Lydia makes a face at, but she doesn't probe the issue.

Deaton's store is wedged in between a dumpling place and a store that sells Chinese knives and daggers. Stiles holds the door open for Lydia, the little bell above the door tinkling. The place looks the same as it always does - dimly lit, the shelves stocked with bundles of sage, crystals, amulets, glass pipes, little carved Buddhas and Quan Yins.

Marin walks out from the back, dressed casually in a black button down and jeans. Stiles sighs to himself; he'd been hoping for Deaton himself but Marin will do.

"Stiles," she says coolly, walking past him to lock the front door of the shop and flip the sign to Closed. "And the banshee."

Lydia stiffens next to him and Stiles reaches out to squeeze her hand, trying to convey that everything is fine. "We have an appointment."

"I'm aware," Marin replies, her expression sardonic. She walks over to a table over by the register and takes a key from around her neck and opens a drawer of the table, withdrawing a pouch. "I believe this is for you." 

Stiles takes the pouch from her and opens it. Inside is a leather cord with a charm on it, a carved piece of rose quartz. Stiles squints at the rune in the center of the crystal. "Protection?"

"Good eye," Marin praises. "It was done by a lovely little Haitian girl. Quite powerful."

"Lydia." Stiles calls her over and holds the necklace up to her.

She blinks at him, her eyes sliding from him to the crystal and back to him. "What the hell is that?"

Stiles snorts at her reaction before lifting the cord up and slipping it over her neck. "Happy anniversary."

She smirks. "I prefer diamonds. For future reference."

"Noted." He turns back to Marin. "Any chance you have something very pretty and out of my price range for the girl who has everything?"

Marin thinks for a moment before snapping her fingers. "One moment." She disappears into the back and comes back a moment later carrying a bottle of wine with a gold label, a large W seal obscuring half of it. "Ten percent aconite," she announces. "It's not jewelry but it's a hell of a good time."

"Sold," Stiles agrees, and pays for the bottle of wine and Lydia's necklace with Derek's credit card.

"Who's the wine for?" Lydia asks on the walk back to the car. "Oh let me guess, a _friend_."

"Yep," he says cheerfully, because he really doesn't want to deal with the Hale freakout he knows is coming later. 

"Any particular reason why you bought me a hunk of crystal?"

"It's spelled," he explains, feeding his parking ticket into the machine and paying with the card before taking the printed ticket back and hitting the button for the elevator.

"Oh," she says, looking a little startled. And then slowly her expression turns smug and she says, "So you're superstitious, too."

"Don't question the method." He follows her into the elevator, car keys clenched in his hand. "I take all the help I can get."

To his surprise Lydia slips her hand into his when they get out of the elevator. "You said I can trust you, right?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, caught in her eyes, how there's an entire forest there he wants to get lost in.

Lydia swallows, her palm clammy against his skin. "Are we going to get across the border?"

"Hey." Stiles squeezes her hand and leans down a little to close the space between them. "Lydia, I've - _we've_ \- been planning this for months, okay? I've got this planned down to like, the last second. It's going to be fine."

She doesn't say anything back, just presses her lips tightly together and holds his hand all the way to the car.

*

The border is about six hours from San Francisco. Stiles takes 80 east before transferring to I-505 north. They hit traffic around four-thirty, a total gridlock, stop and go traffic as far ahead as Stiles can see. He keeps one hand loosely curled around the gearshift, nerves kicking into high gear. The Sig feels heavy under his jacket, he taps his fingers against the steering wheel in a manic staccato. Next to him Lydia is very still, her shoes kicked off so she can curl her legs under herself, forehead pressed to the window.

"Got your passport?" he asks for the third time, easing off the brake to roll forward twenty feet before having to stop behind a Chevy.

"You know I do," she replies tightly. "I'm not a moron."

Stiles rubs the back of his neck. "I know."

"Then don't ask me moronic question."

"Nervous?" he asks sympathetically.

"I don't know about you but it's not every day I go around committing felonies," she snipes.

"Just because it's the law doesn't mean that it's right."

Lydia sighs and shifts around in her seat to stretch her legs out before folding them back up. "I'm really not in the mood to get into a debate about morality right now."

"Alright, fair enough," he says, because she looks like she could poke his eye out and Stiles knows when it's time for him to shut up, and reaches over and turns on the radio.

It takes another hour for them to reach the border. There's a line of cars twenty deep in front of the checkpoint. Two guards with semi-automatics slung over their shoulders are checking papers up ahead. Lydia pulls her fake passport out and lays it in her lap, bottom lip pulled in between her teeth.

"Try to relax," Stiles advises. "I know this is scary"-

"I'm not scared," she snaps.

"Okay, well you look a little tense."

"Maybe my fake boyfriend is failing to see the huge repercussions if something" -

"Nothing is going to go wrong!" he exclaims. "I'm just saying, we're supposed to be on a romantic vacation and you don't really look relaxed or like, even pretend happy, and they'll notice that more than what's in that passport."

"Are they training border guards to read body language?"

"They're training them to look for anything out of the ordinary or suspicious. Two people who say they're a couple but act like they're strangers would be suspicious."

Lydia's upper lip curls. "Maybe I look tense because the guy I'm apparently in love with doesn't know how to satisfy me." 

Her voice is dripping with sarcasm and well, Stiles speaks sarcasm fluently, and anyway, he doesn't appreciate his skills being questioned like this. "If we were together you'd be satisfied. You'd be fucking _drooling_ you'd be so relaxed."

"Really?" she scoffs.

"Want a demo?" he snaps without thinking.

Lydia's eyes go wide before she relaxes back in her seat. "I'm perfectly capable of satisfying myself, thank you very much."

Stiles chokes on air, because _that_ is something he cannot think about while also operating a moving vehicle. "Good for you."

"Don't pout," she reprimands, but then she reaches over and pulls one of his hands off the wheel and guides it to her thigh.

"You know I was joking but if you really want a demonstration later"-

"You want me to look relaxed and in love? Then relax me," she orders.

Another car goes through the checkpoint and Stiles inches the car forward, acutely aware of her skin (silky, soft, warm) under his hand. He dares to flex his fingers, just a bit, and to his surprise Lydia sighs, tipping her head back. He doesn't dare move his hand higher but he keeps it there, wrapped around the inside of her thigh, thumb stroking back and forth.

They follow the line of cars like that, inching closer to the border, one of his hands on the wheel and the other spread over her left thigh, under the fabric of her dress. Lydia has her eyes shut, inhaling and exhaling in a perfect steady four count, the passport clutched in her hands.

"It's going to be fine," he says when the car in front of them is stopped at the checkpoint. "Just follow my lead and let me do the talking."

She nods, sitting up in her seat a little and opening her eyes. "What if they ask me to get out of the car?"

"They won't."

"But what if"-

"Lydia, under no circumstances are you getting out of the car."

The guards wave the car in front of them through the checkpoint and turn around to wave Stiles forward.

"Stiles"-

"Hey." He squeezes her thigh and feels her shudder in response. "I've got you. You can do this." Stiles shifts the car into park, rolls his window halfway down but makes sure the doors are locked. "Just play along, don't talk unless you have to, and everything will be fine."

The guards walk toward the car, one coming around Stiles' window, the other hovering a few feet in front of the car. "How's it going?" Stiles greets him, friendly but casual.

The guard leans against the car. "Identification."

Stiles passes his driver's license out the window, giving a polite smile like he has all the time in the world. The guard glances down at it, no doubt searching out the little _H_ in the status box that indicates Stiles is human and therefore allowed to travel out of state without having to get a special visa. 

He gives it back a few seconds later, peering through the window at Lydia. "Sir, I'm going to need to have a look at her identification as well."

"Of course," Stiles agrees, and squeezes Lydia's thigh. "Honey, he needs to check your passport."

"'ere," Lydia says with a perfect soft French accent, leaning over Stiles to pass it out the window while simultaneously offering a generous view of her cleavage.

The guard takes it and flips it open, his forehead furrowing. Lydia doesn't retreat back to her side of the car, instead tipping her head against Stiles' shoulder and turning her face into the side of his neck.

Stiles takes his hand off her thigh and wraps his arm around her shoulders. "You're doing great," he whispers. "Almost there."

It's definitely taking longer than when the guard looked at his ID. He's examining every single page in her passport, eyes flicking over to them occasionally. Stiles can feel Lydia shaking under his arm, her nails digging into his arm.

"Hey," he whispers, and tips her chin up with his index finger. Lydia stares up at him with wide eyes, looking like she's trying very hard not to cry. "Trust me," he mouths.

Lydia gives him a watery smile and Stiles can't help but lean down and press a kiss to her forehead.

"Sir," the guard says. "May I ask where you two are headed tonight?"

"Her cousin just got engaged, we're heading up to Seattle for the engagement party." Stiles stretches a little, rubbing his hand up and down Lydia's arm. "Thought we'd stop in Portland for the night, make a road trip of it." He smiles broadly. "Romantic, right?"

"Not as romantic as Paris, mon coeur," Lydia says, spreading one hand flat across his chest, idly playing with the opening of his henley.

"Argent," the guard says to himself before squinting at Lydia. "Any relation to Chris?"

Lydia gives the guard a sweet smile and snuggles closer to Stiles. "'ez my uncle." 

The guard leans down and slides Lydia's passport through the open window. "Everything looks fine here. You lovebirds enjoy your trip."

The second guard up ahead waves at them, and Stiles lightly accelerates and drives through the checkpoint, holding his breath until he can barely see the guards in his review mirror.

"Yes!" He slams the steering wheel with an open fist. "I knew we'd be fine, I told you! You were so great Lydia, seriously, I could kiss you right now!"

"Don't," she says wryly, and keels over and bursts into tears.

"Lydia! Lydia"-

"Don't," she sobs. "Just don't. Please."

Stiles is conflicted, he wants to pull over, to hold her to his chest and promise that everything will be okay, but they're too close to the checkpoint for comfort. "Lydia, it's okay, it's over. We made it."

She just sobs, her hands reaching up to clutch her dyed hair. "Just drive," she cries.

Stiles reaches out and spreads his hand across her back. "Okay," he says softly, feeling her whole body heave as she cries under his palm.

It doesn't take a genius know why she's upset, she just left her entire life behind that checkpoint. From what he's read Stiles knows Lydia doesn't see much of her dad but her mom lives in Beacon Hills, her work at the lab is there. With the exception of college (Stanford, her junior year done in Paris, where she met Allison, who was on an exchange program through the University of Washington) she's only lived in Beacon Hills.

She's in a car with him right now, falling apart six inches away from him, but officially speaking, Lydia Martin is dead.

It takes four hours to get to Portland. Lydia cries for the first two, and by the time they get to downtown Portland she's reclined back in her seat with faint mascara tracks running down her face. She twists up to turn the interior light on and flips down her mirror.

"Are we really stopping here?" she asks, the first thing she's said to him since she started crying.

"Yeah, I got us a place for the night. It's um - well it's safe, that's what matters."

Lydia flashes him a suspicious look. "What does that mean?"

Stiles debates telling her right then and there but just can't bring himself to do it. "It's a hotel. You'll like it, it's nice."

Lydia swipes at her face, trying to rub off the mascara. "It better be. I need a fucking drink."

*

The HaleStone is an imposing granite building ten stories high that takes up half a block, the entryway two huge carved oak door and doormen wearing forest green uniforms and white gloves flanking either side. Stiles parks the Subaru and gets out, walks around the front of the car and opens the passenger door. Lydia clutches onto his hand as he helps her out, looking up in awe at the building.

"Good evening!" one the doormen announces. "May we see your key sir?"

Lydia shoots him a questioning look. "We need a key?"

"Members only hotel," he explains, taking his HaleStone membership card out of his wallet and holding it out to be examined.

"Welcome back Mr. Stilinski! May we take your luggage sir?"

"It's in the car." Stiles shoves his wallet back into his jeans and hands his keys over. "Thanks."

"Of course, sir. Enjoy your stay." The doorman scuttles off to take care of the car and the luggage while the other one opens the front door for them.

"Come on," Stiles says to Lydia, and leads her into the hotel lobby.

Lydia literally gasps when they get inside, stopping to do a full three-sixty slow motion turn to take it all in. Stiles usually stays here when he's driving between home and Scott's place with Allison in Washington, but the decor is still impressive as ever:

The lobby is huge, all marbled floor and dark wood, dark green sofas and cream velvet upholstered armchairs scattered around. The ceiling is vaulted, glittering tiered chandeliers hanging down. Tables inlaid with gold leaf are arranged in the center of the room around the sofas, china vases with huge floral arrangements on them. It's overly extravagant, pearl and crystal and gold shimmering on every surface, the Hales' wealth and power on full display.

There's a family crowded around the front desk, a massive oak monstrosity against the far wall. Two small children are climbing around their parents' ankles on the floor, giggling and swiping claws at each other, gold eyes flashing. The boy growls and yanks on his sister's braid and she retaliates by sinking her teeth into his arm.

Their father whirls around, red alpha eyes flashing. "Excuse me," he says in a big booming voice that carries across the room. "We _do not bite_ each other, do we?"

He scoops the little girl up by her ankles and she shrieks, delighted. "No, Daddy."

"That's right," he says, flipping her back onto her feet and reaching down to console his crying son while their mother frantically signs paperwork.

"Stiles," Lydia whispers. "Where _are_ we?"

"The HaleStone is for the most part an exclusively supernatural hotel. You have to be a member to stay here. The application process is absolutely ridiculous, by the way."

"Hale?" Lydia questions, looking apprehensive.

"Stiles!" The family in front of the desk walks away, chatting about their rental car accommodations, and Stiles can now see the girl who's calling for him.

Cora Hale stands up and easily vaults over the desk, an impish grin on her face. She's wearing ripped jeans with her white button down and a leather jacket instead of the standard green blazer most of the staff wears. "I've been waiting for you all night, loser."

"Be nice or you won't get your present," he warns, releasing Lydia to give Cora a hug.

"Aw, you spoil me so well," Cora teases, tucking her hair behind her ears and turning to Lydia, who's gone very still, staring at Cora. 

Cora clears her throat and smirks at Lydia. "Nice jacket."

"Cora," he warns.

Lydia blinks at her, turning to Stiles questioningly. "Thank you?"

Cora holds her hand out. "Welcome to the HaleStone. I'm the owner" -

"Co-owner," Stiles corrects.

She rolls her eyes. "Okay, fine, co-owner. Cora Hale."

Lydia goes pale and actually slumps into Stiles. "What?"

Cora shoots him a worried look. "You didn't tell her?"

"I was _going_ to."

" _Hale?_ " Lydia hisses, giving Stiles a look of total betrayal. "You're - you're one of"-

"It's not like that," Cora says quickly. "We're not like him" -

" _We?_ " Lydia shrieks, looking disgusted. "There's more of you?"

Cora flinches like she's been slapped. "That's right."

"Well then you can tell your family to stay the hell away from me!" She steps back behind Stiles, yanking on his arm. "I'm not staying here."

Cora snorts. "Nice of you to show some gratitude."

" _Gratitude?_ " Lydia spits incredulously. "Tell me, why exactly should I have any reason to be grateful right now?"

"Who do you think bankrolled this little rescue mission?" Cora retorts. "The _Argents?_ Please."

Lydia steps backwards, looking shocked. "What?"

"That's right sweetheart, we're the ones paying your boy here. Do you have any idea how expensive this was to pull off?" Cora sneers. " _We_ are the only reason you're still breathing."

Lydia crosses her arms over her chest. "I'd rather be dead than stay here."

"That can be arranged." Cora growls and Stiles jumps in between them, giving Cora a pleading look.

"She didn't mean that. We're just tired, it's been a long day. Room keys, Cora, please?"

She glares at him but stalks back to the desk and returns with an electronic key card. "Enjoy your stay," she says, saccharine and fake, before stomping away. 

Lydia opens her mouth to respond but Stiles stops her with a finger against her lips. "Do not provoke her," he instructs sternly. "I know you're upset about this but we can talk about it in the room, okay?"

Lydia gives him a furious look and stomps away towards the elevator bay, leaving Stiles to hurry after her. Their room is on the six floor with a view of downtown Portland, all glittering lights and glass against the dark sky. Their luggage gets there at the same time they do, delivered by a werewolf bellhop who takes one look at Lydia and hurries away with a wrinkled nose, no doubt overwhelmed by the scent of rage that must be rolling off her.

The room has a similar decor as the lobby: cream painted walls, marbled floor, a kind size bed with a dark green quilted comforter with gold accents. There's a cream velvet chaise against the foot of the bed, a matching love seat against the window angled in the direction of a huge flatscreen tv hanging above a dresser and the minibar.

"I cannot believe you took me here," Lydia snarls, pacing back and forth in front of the door. "Does Allison" -

"Of course Allison knows," Stiles tells her. "You know, they own the motel we stayed at last night too. It's okay Lydia, we're safe here, I promise."

"I can't do this," Lydia mutters, sticking one hand in her jacket pocket, the edge of her passport sticking out. "I'm getting the hell out of here."

Stiles lunges for her, catching her by the wrist before she can open the door. "The hell you are."

Her eyes glitter like emeralds. "Let go of me."

"No," he says shortly, fingers tight around her wrist.

"I'll scream," she warns.

"Soundproof rooms," he tells her smugly. "No one will hear you."

"Then no one will hear you begging for mercy when I blow out your eardrums." She points at her mouth with the hand he isn't currently restraining. "Banshee, remember?"

"Lydia come on, look, I know you're scared but" -

"Scared?" Lydia laughs a little maniacally. "You think you know how I'm feeling? You don't know one thing about me."

"The hell I don't," he retorts. "Your name is Lydia Lorraine Martin, born in 1995 at Beacon Hills Hospital to Natalie Martin. Your middle name is for your grandmother, who, incidentally, was also a banshee."

Lydia wrenches out of his grip and steps back from him, farther into the room, looking surprised. "How did you know that?"

Stiles takes a step towards her. "Research, Lydia. Allison hired me to extract you, did you really think I wouldn't check you out? The Benefactor had you under surveillance, I was going to find out everything about you before making a plan."

"So you know my birthday, good for you," she sneers. "So what?"

"I know that you grew up eight blocks from me," Stiles continues. "We're the same age by the way, we would've grown up together except your parents put you in Beacon Country Day instead of public school, understandable considering your IQ."

There's a flash of shock on her face before she purses her lips. "I don't see how that's relevant."

"Your sophomore year of high school," Stiles continues. "You went to a party at Brett Talbot's house and met a boy who went to Beacon Hills High School named Jackson Whittemore."

Lydia goes pale, standing in the space between the chaise and the dresser, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

"You and Jackson started dating," Stiles continues. "He invited you to our winter formal."

Lydia's eyelashes flutter. "Our?"

"Yeah, we were all on the lacrosse team together, me and Jackson and Scott." Stiles pauses suddenly, wondering. "You didn't know?"

She scowls. "Why would I care about some sport Scott played before he was turned and dragged out of the state?"

"Okay, first of all he wasn't dragged out of the state, his dad pulled some strings and got him and his mom special visas, which is probably the one nice thing he's ever done for them. And gee Lydia, I don't know, why would you care about some little detail like that? It's not like you, Jackson and Scott all got attacked by Peter Hale at that dance on the lacrosse field behind the school."

Lydia's mouth drops open. "How do you know that?"

"What do you mean, how do I know that? I just told you"-

"No!" she whispers harshly. "That wasn't...those details, where we were when it happened, it was never released. The school was afraid of the bad press, they thought the board would shut them down so they lied, said we left early, the official story was that we were all bit in the woods." She takes a step forward and pokes him in the chest, hard. "So tell me Stiles, how the hell do you know that?"

"Because I was there!" He yells. "I told you, I went to school with Scott, we knew Jackson"-

"Stop it!" Lydia says hysterically. "Stop saying his name!"

"He left you at that fucking dance because he wanted to play a prank on Scott, by the way. I don't know if you're aware of this but Jackson was kind of a massive dick back then. You went looking for him, you walked out the back entrance of the school and onto the lacrosse field. You were out there calling his name and that's....that's when Peter attacked you. He left you there, bleeding out on the grass, and then he went after Jackson and Scott."

Lydia looks like she's going to pass out. "There was someone else out there," she says hoarsely. "A boy." She swallows thickly. "I saw him across the field. He tried to warn me. I heard him yelling at me to run but..."

"But it was too late." Stiles reaches down and weaves their fingers together. "You were wearing a silver dress that night."

Lydia tilts her head up at him and her eyes fill with tears. "You grew out your hair."

"And you grew up gorgeous," he whispers.

She shuts her eyes and a tear slips down her cheek. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Believe it or not I didn't want to bring up any bad memories. You were...pretty much unconscious by the time I got to you, I didn't think you'd remember me. I uh, I tried to visit you in the hospital after but your parents wouldn't let you have any visitors."

For a long time Lydia just stares at him before she finally blinks and pulls her hands away from him to wipe furiously at her face. "Then you understand why I can't stay here."

Stiles gapes at her. "Lydia, where would you go? Seriously? You can't go back to California. You don't have any money, you don't have a phone. I'm sorry but this is how it has to be."

She takes a step back at him, looking injured. "You want me to stay here when they" -

"Cora and Derek aren't Peter, Lydia. They've spent the last eight years trying to make up for what he's done. I know them, I promise that you'll be safe here. Honestly, this is safest place you could be right now."

She makes an exasperated sound. "Are you serious?"

"If you leave then all you're doing is proving to Cora that she was right about you. Do you have any idea how long it took to plan this? How much work it was? Jesus Lydia, people put their lives on the line for you and this is how you repay them?"

"You think I wanted that?" Lydia shouts, stumbling back and catching herself on the dresser. "How do you think that makes me feel, knowing that other people put themselves at risk for me? If I leave now"-

"You won't get anywhere without me," he says hotly, closing the space between them and smacking his hands down on the dresser so she's boxed in. "You have no money and a freaking French passport. What's your plan huh, hitchhike across the state?"

Lydia's breathing shallowly, this heartbroken panicked look on her face like she's just really understanding how much she's had to give up: her identity, her job, her old life, her freedom.

"Do you know what they'll do to you if you get caught by the police, if they figure out who you really are?" he continues to rant. "You walk out that door right now and you might as well spit in the face of everyone who risked their life to get you here."

"You don't think I know that?" She's getting hysterical, eyes full of tears, gasping for breath. "Do you think I ever wanted this? Because I didn't, and now all these people put their money and their time into saving me and I know how dangerous it is! I'll be damned if something happens to Scott or Allison because of me." Lydia chokes on a sob. "I'd rather die than watch one of you get hurt because of me."

And then Lydia looks up at him, tears pooling in her eyes, like she's searching for something in his face, some shred of something to cling to, and in one fluid motion rises up on her tiptoes, digs her hands into his shirt, and pulls him down so she can kiss him.

Everything in Stiles' head just whites out, all he's aware of suddenly is full soft lips pressing against his own demandingly. He obligingly parts his mouth and groans when her tongue darts out to flick against his. He pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth and bites, just a little, and Lydia cries into his mouth. He runs his tongue over the bite like an apology, reaching out to cup her face in his hands as he slowly pulls away.

"You are not going to die," he tells her fiercely. "No one is going to die, okay?"

Lydia shivers and reaches up to curl her fingers around his wrists before slowly nodding. "Okay," she whispers.

Stiles exhales and leans down to rest his forehead against hers. "Don't quit on me now, okay?"

Lydia squeezes his wrist. "Okay." She blinks a few times, stray tears falling out of the corners of her eyes. "So that's twice you saved me then."

Stiles runs his thumbs over her cheekbones. "What can I say, you seem to have a knack for attracting trouble."

She laughs weakly, tilting her head to press her cheek against his palm. "So what do we do now?"

He manages a shrug. "Get wasted on mini bar alcohol and order room service? I'm starving, we never stopped for dinner."

Lydia smirks wickedly and spins around so she can peruse the contents of the mini fridge. "Hmm... what's your opinion on fuzzy navels?"

"I'm secure enough in my masculinity to tell you that fuzzy navels are fucking delicious."

Lydia mixes them both drinks in crystal tumbles she grabs from the sidebar, sitting side by side on the love seat. There's some kind of energy in the air all of a sudden, with the acknowledgement of how they really know each other, how strangely connected they are.

It makes them both a little awkward, Lydia finishes her drink almost as quickly as Stiles and immediately makes them seconds without saying a word while he opens the leather bound room service menu, dialing the kitchen with the hotel phone. 

They order a ton of overpriced food up to the room: two plate of fries, a seasonal fruit plate, pita bread and hummus, chicken tenders, stuffed dates, mac and cheese, and an entire chocolate mousse cake, Lydia pointing to each item she wants with delighted tipsy glee while Stiles places the order.

She disappears into the bathroom and comes out wearing the yoga pants and a grey tank top, makeup washed off, her hair pulled back into a short ponytail. Lydia makes a detour to the bar to top off both their glasses before sinking down on the chaise next to him.

"I miss my hair," she says softly, folding her legs up and tucking her chin over her knees.

Stiles slings his arm around her shoulders. "Your hair was really pretty," he says. "But in the interest of full disclosure I think you're rocking the brunette thing."

She ducks her head to take a sip of her drink, the ghost of a smile of her face. "Thanks."

Room service arrives and Lydia and Stiles spread everything out on the foot of the bed. Lydia climbs up onto the bed and surveys their feast before giving him a critical glance. "You are not dressed properly," she says sternly, pointing to his jeans.

Stiles grins and kicks them off, only realizing that he's already kind of drunk when he trips over the hem and has to catch himself on the bed, nearly upending the chocolate cake.

"Careful!" she chides around a mouthful of strawberry.

"I'm kind of buzzed," he admits, walking over to his duffle and taking out the sweatpants. "So combined with my natural clumsiness I'm basically a walking hazard right now."

"So come back here," she says, her voice suddenly soft. "Screw the sweatpants."

"Yeah, screw 'em," he agrees cheerfully, because there's a warm pool of affection in his stomach for her, the way she's looking at him just a bit suggestively.

He grabs the vodka on his way to the bed, pouring liberal amounts into their glasses and swirling them around so the liquor mixes with the juice and peach schnapps. "M'lady," he says cheekily, passing Lydia her drink before clambering up on the bed in just his boxer briefs and henley.

"Thank you sir," she replies in the same fashion, two high spots of color on her cheeks. 

Stiles splays out on his stomach so he can dig a fork into the mac and cheese while Lydia stretches over him to grab the remote off the nightstand and turns the tv on. She scrolls through channels, occasionally eating a bite of mac and cheese off his fork. She finds some terrible Nicolas Sparks adaption and absolutely refuses to change the channel.

"I have earned the right to indulge in a sappy romance," she declares, tosses the remote aside and popping a date into her mouth. "Deal with it."

Stiles shrugs and crams a handful of fries into his mouth, chews, chews, chews and swallows. "You make a fair point."

They make a decent dent in the food before Lydia groans and shoves the trays of food away with her toe. "Drink, drink," she murmurs, locating her glass on her nightstand and draining it. 

"Feeling better?" he asks, stretching out his arm to dip his index finger into the cake and licks off a liberal amount of frosting.

Lydia's eyes are glazed over, watching him suck his finger clean. "What?"

Stiles reaches for a napkin and wipes chocolate off his fingers. "You feeling okay? You were pretty upset before, which you totally have the right to be, just - fuck I'm drunk, are you drunk?"

"I believe I am fairly inebriated right now, yes." She nods seriously, her tongue darting out to swipe at her bottom lip. "I need some water," she declares, and rolls right off the edge of the bed.

"Lydia!" Stiles flings himself across the bed and hangs over the edge, where Lydia is splayed out on the floor, looking unhurt and bemused.

"Huh," she says, looking up at him. "I fell off the bed."

"Yeah but you did it very elegantly," Stiles says kindly.

Lydia crinkles her nose. "You got me drunk."

"Actually _you_ got _me_ drunk," he corrects her.

She waves a hand at him. "Semantics. Help me up."

Stiles dangles one arm off the bed and she grabs onto it and uses the leverage to wrench herself up. Lydia stumbles back and Stiles slides forward to catch her by the elbow. Lydia finds her balance and throws him a quick little smile, her cheeks flushed.

"I need to hydrate," she announces, and trails her hand along the wall as she wanders into the bathroom.

Stiles gets off the bed and takes care of the food, moving everything back to the tray the bellhop delivered it on. For the first time since he put a bullet in a man's head last night he feels like he can at least attempt to relax. He's at the HaleStone, probably the safest property in the entire state of Oregon, Lydia is alive, beautiful, brilliant Lydia Martin, who kissed him an hour ago, and tomorrow they'll be at Scott and Allison's place on Bainbridge Island.

He climbs back on the bed, feeling heavy and warm, and twists around to turn the lamps off so the room is lit by the movie on the screen. He leans back against the pillows, the vodka making everything blurry and soft and Stiles is so grateful, to just be here.

He's crossed the border plenty of times but never like that, and now that it's over it feels safe enough to be aware of his fear, to let it bleed out with every breath he takes.

Lydia comes out of the bathroom, a half full water glass in her hand. "Drink," she instructs.

Stiles takes the glass from her and swallows the water in two gulps before putting it down on the nightstand. Lydia slides in next to him, snuggling under his right arm, her bare legs tangling with his own. He looks down, at Lydia's bare legs - perfect white skin, soft curves, the dark lace of her underwear.

Lydia seems to feel the sudden attention because she smirks and says, "You weren't wearing pants, so..."

He just nods, dry mouthed, stroking his thumb over her bare arm. They watch the movie like that for awhile, her head against his chest, his fingers tracing patterns over her arm. He starts to feel like maybe he could fall asleep just like this when Lydia stretches and shifts her weight and suddenly she's in his lap, her knees bracketing his hips, her hands coming up to curl around his neck.

"Hey," Stiles whispers, overwhelmed with her - her fingers tracing over his cervical vertebrae, the dip of her cleavage, the weight of her ass on his thighs.

"Hey," she whispers back. She tilts her head and runs her tongue along her bottom lip, staring rather blatantly at his mouth.

"This is a really bad idea," he says, even though he's drunk and he can't remember why, can't imagine why this - Lydia, two inches away, throwing him every nonverbal sign of attraction in the book - could be a bad thing.

Lydia shifts and suddenly she's lined up right against his dick and he chokes, reaching out to grip her hips to anchor himself. "What were you saying?" Lydia asks sweetly.

Stiles blinks at her, tries to think past the sensation of her pressing right up against him where he's quickly getting fully hard. "This would be very unprofessional of me," he acknowledges.

Lydia hums and bends forward to graze his earlobe with her teeth. "What exactly did Allison hire you to do, Stiles?" 

He swallows and exhales shakily. "To fake your death and get you out of the state safely by any means necessary."

Her lips move a fraction lower, under his chin. "Anything else?"

He squeezes her hips, palming them in his hands. She lets out a little muffled moan against his throat and Stiles already knows, that's he's never going to be able to say no, not to her, not when he feels like this - like every cell in his body is on fire, like he wants to plunge his tongue into her mouth and drown in her.

"Stiles?" Lydia prompts, and rolls her hips.

He groans and adjusts his grip on her hips. "To make sure you were okay. To take...to take care of you."

She pulls back, looking him dead in the eyes. "So take care of me."

"Lydia," he pleads weakly, because he doesn't know her well enough to know if she'll regret it, if she's choosing this because she wants it or if she's just being drunk and careless.

She bends down and presses her lips against the corner of his mouth, her hands cradling his head. It's so intimate, her breasts pressed against his chest, her hands in his hair, that he just freezes, consumed by her.

"I see the way you look at me," she whispers. "I know you want me." Her fingers grip his hair and _pull_ and Stiles feels his eyes roll back.

"I don't want...to just be a distraction," he grits out.

Lydia hovers over him, her fingers suddenly switching to a gently stroking motion, her expression tender. "You're the only good thing about any of this. You're not a distraction, you're like..."

"Like an anchor?" he suggest quietly, thinking of how he feels when he's touching her - more stable, more present, more everything.

"Yeah," she says softly, her eyes so big, a little unsure, like she's admitting a secret to him. "I used to... I used to dream about you sometimes after it happened."

Stiles goes still under her. " _What?_ "

Lydia shivers and Stiles instinctively wraps one hand around the back of her neck and guides her head to his chest. Lydia sighs and nuzzles closer, her hands sliding over his shoulder blades. "I'd dream about that night sometimes. It was always the same. I'd be on my back on the lacrosse field, and I knew... that he had bit me and I was dying."

"God, Lydia," he mutters, cupping the back of her head protectively.

"No, no," she murmurs against his skin. "It wasn't... a nightmare. I wasn't afraid. There were... someone was there. Sometimes I'd see your face but mostly it was just..."

Her lips press over his heart and Stiles can't breathe. He and Scott talked about this before he left, had multiple conversations about how this might come up, how Stiles was going to deal with it - but he can't remember now, he can't focus on anything other than her.

"I'd hear you talk to me," she whispers. "When I'd wake up I never remembered what you said but I remember the way I felt." She tilts her head up to look at him. "Those were the good dreams."

"What about the bad dreams?"

Lydia blinks, once, her expression hardening. "Red."

Red like her blood, red like Peter's eyes in the dark.

Stiles nods seriously. "We don't have to do anything," he offers. "I mean, we're going to be at Scott and Allison's all week, we have... time."

Her lips curve up in a teasing smile. "But you promised me a demonstration."

His head spins. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?"

Lydia pulls his hand down and places it high up on her thigh. "I believe we left off here."

Stiles groans and folds over her, their lips meeting in a kiss as he slides his hand up to the crease of her hip. Lydia sighs into his mouth, muscles twitching under his hand. Stiles takes his time exploring, slides shaking fingers under the lace of her underwear to feel soft warm skin as she kisses him languidly, her fingers trailing up under his shirt.

He spreads out his fingers to cup her with his palm and she gasps into his mouth. He hardly moves at first, waits for her to rock her hips into him before using his fingertips to stroke. Lydia pulls her mouth away from his and drops her head to his shoulder, her forehead just under his collarbone. He can feel her tongue hot against his skin, the tension in her thighs and hamstrings as she curls her body over him.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs.

She nods against his chest and yanks on the hem of his shirt. "Off, off," she mutters. "Why are we wearing shirts?"

"Great point," he says enthusiastically, withdrawing his fingers from her so he can divest himself of his henley. Lydia follows suit, peeling off her camisole and bra in one sleek motion, leaving Stiles to stare dumbly at her as she kicks off her underwear before settling back into his lap.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he mumbles, hands grabbing greedily for her ass so he can push his hips into her.

"Yeah," she sighs absently, spreading her legs further apart so that he can slide two fingers inside her, his stomach clenching when she makes a little punched out noise of satisfaction and pitches forward to press her teeth against his collarbone.

He strokes with his fingers, listening to Lydia pant into his shoulder, her fingers spread out over his sides, nails digging into his skin. Stiles floats on a sea of his own arousal, half awake and half somewhere else, still vaguely drunk. Lydia is draped over him, his hand the only thing between their two bodies.

He adds his thumb into the mix and she makes an encouraging sound. Stiles drifts to the rhythm of her breath, little high pitched sighs that get more drawn out as he idly traces shapes with his thumb. She starts to shake, he can feel the backs of her thighs tremble, his free hand cupping over the quivering muscle.

"Please," she mumbles, or _more_ , maybe, rolling her hips, clenching down on his fingers.

"Shh," he murmurs, tender, free hand sliding up her back and around her waist, mapping out the curves of her body, squeezing and rubbing every bit of flesh he comes into contact with.

He twists his fingers inside her and Lydia goes rigid, holding her breath, fingers rhythmically clenching and releasing against his ribs, until she finally exhales, long and low, relaxing against him with a soft whimper. 

Then there are hands coming down to the waistband of his boxer briefs, tugging them down so she can curl her fingers tightly around him. Stiles lets his head drop back, the heat in his stomach pooling lower in his pelvis, listening to her soft murmur of _come on, come, Stiles_ , and he spills over her fist.

*

He wakes up with a dry mouth and a pounding head, starfished out on the plush bed of their hotel room. Next to him Lydia groans and flops over, completely naked, the curve of her ass peeking out over the blanket.

"What time is it?" she mumbles, using her grip on his pillow to pull herself over to his side of the bed and crawls under his arm.

Stiles swallows thickly, turning his head to look at the clock on the nightstand. "Almost noon."

"Damn," she murmurs.

"Long day yesterday," he comments, fingers going up to brace against the throbbing in his temples.

"Coffee," she moans softly, her toes poking him in the thigh.

"They serve breakfast until two," he informs her.

"At least they understand proper hospitality," she comments, and tugs on Stiles' arm relentlessly until he gets up and hey, he's naked too! He doesn't really remember falling asleep last night, just the warm weight of Lydia hovering over him, the hot squeeze of her on his fingers, the way she whispered for him to come in this soft coquettish voice that went straight to his dick.

They take a shower together, moving easily around each other and laughing lightly at how hungover they both clearly are, like they've known each other for years, because it's easy, to give in, to reach for her hips to steady her when she moves around him in the small confined space.

"It's so unfair," she murmurs, tilting her head back against his chest so Stiles can work shampoo through her hair. "I'm like, the only supernatural creature in existence who has absolutely no enhanced alcohol tolerance."

Stiles kisses her shoulder, acutely aware that he's getting hard against her back at just the sound of her voice. "Nothing wrong with being a cheap date," he teases.

Lydia spins in his arms, tilting her head back, eyes shut, shampoo bubbles washing down the length of her hair. "I prefer sex as a coping mechanism better, honestly."

"Amen," he replies, and leans down to kiss her, one hand braced on the wall.

Lydia blow drys her hair completely naked in the bathroom while Stiles gets dressed and packs their stuff, trying not to lose his mind at the sight of Lydia bent over, head flipped upside down to give her hair more volume or some shit like that.

A bellhop in a green blazer takes their luggage down for them and Stiles and Lydia go into the dining room off the lobby, a beautiful room with a full glass wall on one side that looks out into a garden. They both order coffee; Lydia is clearly as much of an addict as he is, along with omelettes and a large plate of hash browns to share. She's as hungover as he is, she picks at the potatoes and doesn't touch her eggs. It takes them half an hour just to get through one cup of coffee each but they're in no rush, Scott and Allison live about four hours from here, an easy drive compared to yesterday.

Stiles pours them both more coffee from the carafe on the table, twisting to stretch his back, and spies Derek sitting at a table in the far corner of the room, a newspaper spread out in front of him next to a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs.

"Hey, I have to go talk to someone real quick, will you be okay here?" Stiles asks her.

Lydia nods, curling her hands around her mug of coffee. "I'm not leaving until I've had at least two more cups, anyway."

Stiles grins in approval, picking up his own mug and taking it with him as he weaves through tables to get to Derek. He plops down in a chair opposite him; Derek doesn't even look up, just flips the page of his newspaper. "What do you need, Stiles?"

"What makes you think I need something?" Stiles asks innocently, reaching to swipe a piece of bacon off Derek's plate and pouting when he catches him by the wrist.

"Just tell me so I can give it to you and go back to pretending you don't exist."

"You're mean in the morning," Stiles complains. "Seriously, you take grumpy to a whole new level."

"It's almost one pm." Derek sighs and releases his hand, a clear sign that Stiles has permission to steal his bacon. "Just get to it already."

Stiles pops a piece of bacon into his mouth, chews and swallows it down with a swig of coffee. "So you know that couple who owned the bar where I... you know."

Derek's expression softens minutely. "Everything go okay with that?"

Stiles squirms a little in his seat. "Yeah, it went, well I wouldn't say it was _fine_ but everything went according to plan."

"So what's the problem?"

"There's not a problem! It's just, so you know I know them, right? Erica and Boyd. They kind of put their business and you know, their lives as risk to help, and" -

"Pay them whatever you think is fair," Derek says with a wave of his hand. "That's what the money's for."

Stiles swallows. "They don't want money."

Derek looks up for the first time. "You are not asking me for what I think you're asking me right now."

"Just hear me out man." Stiles folds his arms on the table and leans over the plate of bacon. "Erica has epilepsy. It's... it's really bad, okay, I swear I wouldn't even ask otherwise but"-

Derek's eyes flash. "Please tell me you didn't offer"-

"Of course not!" Stiles exclaims hastily. "Just that I would ask."

Derek groans and buries his face in his hands. "You know I can't just go around turning people, that's not how it works."

"You turned Isaac," Stiles points out softly.

Derek glares at him. "Extenuating circumstances."

"Just - just think about it, okay? They're coming to the engagement party, you can talk to them about it."

Derek sighs, worrying the edges of his newspaper with his fingers. "Fine," he bites out. "I will discuss it with her, that's all I'm promising."

Stiles knows a victory when he sees one, grins and snatches two more pieces of bacon. "Thanks big guy, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "You're a menace to society, you little thief." He glances over Stiles' shoulder, where Lydia is nursing her coffee. "That's her?"

"Yeah."

"Pretty," Derek comments lightly.

"You should've seen her before the dye job."

"Any woman who would trust you with that is clearly out of her mind."

"I'm telling you, Derek. _Mean_."

Derek, clearly unbothered by this, holds his hand out, and Stiles sighs before reaching into his wallet and gives Derek's credit card back to him. "So, thanks for, you know" -

"I owed her," Derek says shortly. "It was the right thing to do."

Stiles grins. "You act all grumpy but deep down you're just a little old softly, aren't you?"

"Don't think I won't rip your throat out" -

"With your teeth, yeah, yeah, I know." Stiles stands up and pushes his chair back. "Your threats are old news, Der."

Derek smacks him with his newspaper. "Get the hell out of my hotel already."

"You love me," Stiles proclaims loudly, and laughs all the way back to his table at the horrified look on Derek's face.

*

The drive up to Scott and Allison's place on Bainbridge Island feels like a vacation compared to yesterday. Oregon and Washington have open borders, a stark contrast to California's arguably draconian laws, and they sail into Washington state with the windows rolled down, Lydia's bare feet on the dash. The sun is setting outside Stiles' window, the light soft and warm on his face.

Bainbridge Island is just west of Seattle, across the water, charming and idyllic, the Olympic National forest a short drive away. Scott and Allison live in a huge house close to the beach. It's an Argent property originally, although recently it's become a bit of a pack house as well. Liam, Scott's beta, stays there when he's not at school and Stiles has had his own room since Scott and Allison moved in after graduation, when Chris gifted Allison the house.

He wonders what Chris thinks of it sometimes, all these werewolves sleeping under a roof designed to protect hunters. Scott and Allison's college romance was clearly not a fling like Chris had (loudly and repeatedly) hoped for, but somewhere between Scott becoming a true alpha and college graduation Chris has seemed to accept if not wholeheartedly support their relationship.

Scott and Allison are waiting for them on the front porch when Stiles pulls the car up and parks in the circular driveway outside, standing on the top step like they've been waiting for awhile, waving frantically. The house is huge, made of slate grey stones with a sloping white roof, surrounded by grass and trees, hydrangeas planted all around the front of the house. 

Stiles and Lydia get out of the car and right away Lydia is tackled by Allison, who's shrieking and jumping up and down, tears streaming down her face. Stiles leans against the hood of the car, watching Lydia laugh and reach up to wipe off Allison's tears with her thumbs before planting a kiss on her cheek.

Scott slides past the girls and comes up to Stiles, arms outstretched, and Stiles falls into his hug, feeling the remaining tension in his body melt away. He hugs Scott back, watching Lydia over his shoulder, her hands tangled with Allison's as she whispers something that makes Allison send him a questioning look before dissolving into laughter.

Scott claps him on the back. "Okay?"

Stiles nods, letting himself soak up Scott's energy for a few more seconds before pulling away. "Yeah, yeah. I'm good now."

Scott smiles, eyes flicking over to Lydia. "You fucking did it, man."

Stiles can't help but laugh, just at how ridiculous the last forty-eight hours have been. "I had a lot of help."

Scott grins and slings his arm over Stiles' shoulders. "Come on, the girls are gonna be like that for hours. You can help me grill."

"And by help you mean"-

"Have a beer and stand absolutely no less than six feet away from the grill," Scott says sternly, walking back around the car to get their bags out of the trunk.

"Jeesh, you light a deck chair on fire _one time_ ," Stiles proclaims weakly, and follows Scott into the house.

They all eat dinner on the huge stone back deck at a table that can sit eighteen people. Lydia sits across from him, her toes brushing along his shins as Scott and Allison chat happily about their plans for the party on Friday, the light from the citronella candles making Allison's engagement ring glow in the twilight.

Lydia gets put in a guest room somewhere on the second floor down the hallway from Scott and Allison's bedroom. Stiles' room is in the back of the house on the first floor with a huge window that faces out towards the backyard and beyond that, a graveled path that winds through the trees and down to the beach. They're forced to awkwardly say goodnight to each other at the foot of the stairs in front of Scott and Allison. Stiles hugs her lightly, not at all the way he really wants to, and smiles blandly when she murmurs goodnight and follows Scott and Allison up the stairs, turning around once to throw him a reluctant glance.

He wanders down the hallway back to his room, feeling oddly twitchy without Lydia at his side. He strips down to his boxer briefs and face plants onto the bed, kicking the navy plaid comforter around as he gets comfortable. He had a few beers with dinner and he feels pleasantly buzzed, sprawled out in the bed that smells like saltwater and evergreen and somehow, home.

He's just starting to drift off, dream fragments flickering behind his eyelids, when his door opens and Lydia tiptoes into his room, wincing at the squeaking sound the door makes when she shuts it. She's wearing a shirt that must be Allison's because it has _Wash U Archery_ printed over the chest in block white letters.

"Hey," Stiles murmurs, rubbing his eyes. "You okay?"

"I couldn't sleep," she whispers, shifting her weight back and forth, her feet bare and somehow vulnerable looking on the hardwood floor.

Stiles flips back the covers and she pads over to the bed and crawls in, pulling the blankets up over her and snuggling into his side. She's so small really, it's easy for Stiles to shift and get his arm around her, letting her put her head on his chest and drape one thigh over his.

"Better?" he whispers.

Lydia nods against him, her hand curling over his hip. "Every time I closed my eyes I'd see him. I couldn't..."

"It's okay." He yawns, running his hand down her spine. "You're safe here." 

"I know," she says in a small voice. "Is this okay? Can we just...?"

"Yeah," he whispers, sliding his hand up her shirt to rest in the dip of her waist. "Go to sleep."

So she does, and a few minutes later, lulled by the steady rhythm of her breath, so does Stiles.

*

Stiles wakes up alone to sunlight streaming through the window. He takes a hot shower, reveling in the sensation of the water pounding down on his traps. He brushes his teeth and finds a pair of sweatpants and an old BHHS LAX shirt with his last name on the back in the dresser and pulls it over his head, his wet hair no doubt spiking in a million different directions.

In the kitchen Scott, Allison and Lydia are all standing around the table drinking coffee, a plate of scrambled eggs next to a basket of bagels in the center.

"Hey," Stiles says, announcing himself, catching the brilliant smile Lydia flashes him before dropping her eyes to her plate.

"Hi Stiles," Allison says cheerfully. "We're just about to head out actually."

"Yeah?" He reaches for an everything bagel and starts slathering it with cream cheese. "For what?"

"Shopping," Lydia says crisply. "I have a wardrobe to replace."

After breakfast he and Scott go for a run on the beach, the sun beating down on his shoulders, alcohol sweating out his pores. They take the gravel path through the woods, Stiles panting for breath and dousing himself with the water bottle he brought.

"Okay there?" Scott asks, not even out of breath, the asshole.

"I'm still catching up on sleep," Stiles explains. "I'm a weak human here Scott, come on, give me a break."

Scott snorts, shoulder checking him lightly. "So did you and Lydia...?"

"Yeah, we talked about it," he confirms. "We're good."

"Good or like, _good_ good?"

Stiles thinks about Lydia falling asleep in his arms, the curve of her waist and hips, how she held her breath when Stiles made her come.

"Oh my god," Scott groans, wrinkling his nose. "Never mind, you just answered my question."

Stiles shoves him lightly. "Sorry bro. Look, it's like... like we get a second chance, you know? I spent all this time wondering about her, thinking about that night, and now she's here and she... I think she feels the same way, Scott."

Scott sighs and shoves his fingers through his hair. "Well at least you guys have some time now, to figure it out."

They eat lunch on the back deck and spend a few hours floating in the pool, throwing a ball around and then abandoning it in favor of dozing off on giant pool floats shaped like exotic birds, because seriously, shacking up with Allison Argent is the best decision Scott's ever made. Stiles loves it out here, the privacy, the beach, like they're in their own little world.

"Stiles." He blinks his eyes open and Lydia is standing at the edge of the pool, wearing a pale yellow sundress and cork wedged sandals, a big pair of black sunglasses perched on the top of her head, her arms laden down with shopping bags.

"Hey," he says, holding a hand up in greeting and flipping his inflatable swan right over so he falls headfirst into the water. 

Lydia's still there when he comes up for air, an affectionate smile tugging at her lips. "Come on," she says, inclining her head toward the house. "I have more bags in the car."

Stiles blinks water out of his eyes, counting _seven_ giant bags hanging off her small frame. "How much more could you have possibly bought?" he asks, baffled, swimming towards the edge and hauling himself out of the pool. 

"You'll see," Lydia says, stepping back hastily so he can't drip all over her feet.

Stiles shakes his head and follows her back into the house, leaving wet footprints all over the floor.

*

The next three days follow the same pattern: they all eat breakfast together in the morning and then the girls disappear to take care of details relating to the party. They go to the florist, confer with the caterers, spend four hours spread out on the living room floor on Wednesday afternoon looking at linen samples.

"Are you planning an engagement party or the wedding?" Stiles asks from where he's sprawled out on the couch, iPad rested against his thighs, scrolling through some of the decrypted data Mason found on the assassin's phone, bank account numbers and email records of payments.

"Don't question the method," Lydia retorts, and then freezes, staring at him, because she just parroted his own words back to him.

Stiles swallows and gets up, ignoring the questioning look on Allison's face. "I'm gonna go see if Scott needs help with dinner."

"Don't touch anything!" Allison shouts after him. "If you burn my house down you're officially un-invited to the wedding!"

*

Stiles wakes up Friday morning to his phone buzzing on the floor, the space next to him still warm; Lydia must have snuck out recently. They haven't done anything since they got here but kiss quietly in the dark, hyperaware of Scott's hearing. It's not like they're keeping it a secret. It's just a hard thing to explain, Stiles thinks, how this past weekend changed both of them, how they've been bonded together by danger and fear.

His phone buzzes insistently and Stiles reaches down blindly to answer it without glancing at the screen. "Yeah?"

"What the hell did you do?"

He groans and rolls over on his back. "Hey Dad."

"Stiles" -

"Did you do it?"

There's a beat and then his dad sighs. "Yeah kid, of course I did."

"Thanks Dad."

"Are you even going to explain to me" -

"Yeah, yeah, of course, I'll tell you anything you want to know when you get here."

"Christ," his dad mutters. "I don't even want to know, do I?"

"Probably not," Stiles says cheerfully. 

"You're a real piece of work kid, you know that?"

"But you love me anyway."

He can't see his dad but Stiles can feel him smiling. "Yeah, I do. I'll see you later, I've got a flight to catch."

Stiles hangs up grinning, the final piece of the plan sliding into place. Yeah, he thinks smugly, he's the freaking master.. He pulls on a shirt and pair of lacrosse shorts and wanders into the kitchen only to discover that it's been completely taken over by caterers, presided over by Chris Argent, who's snapping orders in French.

"Heyyy," Stiles says awkwardly, holding up a hand in greeting. "How's it going?"

"Stiles." Chris gives him a short nod before turning back to the caterers.

The sliding doors to the porch open and Lydia steps through them, wearing a pale blue tank top and gauzy white shorts with little pineapples printed on them. "Looking for coffee?" 

" _Yes_ ," he says desperately. "Help me."

"Come on." Lydia smirks and crooks a finger at him. "I've got you covered."

There's a French press on the table outside with a few mugs, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a plate laden with muffins and pastries. Stiles moans in delight and pours himself a cup of coffee while Lydia chuckles.

"How the hell did you do manage to get this?" he asks, gesturing to the breakfast spread before snagging two blueberry muffins.

Lydia picks up her mug of coffee and climbs onto a wide chaise lounge. "I asked. And maybe shamelessly flirted a bit."

"Genius," he declares, setting his plate down on the deck floor before lowering himself down next to her on the chaise.

Lydia tilts her head up at him and smiles softly. "Hey."

"Hey." He scans the yard but no one is around so he bends his head down to kiss. She tastes like strawberries and hazelnut creamer, her lips brushing his own before pulling away to rest her head against his chest.

Lydia sighs contentedly and sips her coffee. Stiles mimics her, stretching his legs out while the caffeine slowly filters into his bloodstream. "Where's Scott?"

Lydia laughs. "Hiding from Chris, I think. Allison is picking up her dress from the tailor."

Stiles reaches down and breaks a piece of his muffin off. "This is really nice." 

Lydia nods, flexing and pointing her toes. "I'm going to get so bored here."

"Alone with Scott and Allison?"

"It's not that I'm not grateful," she says quickly. "I'm just... I suppose I'm used to working. I don't do well with spare time on my hands." She sighs mournfully. "Maybe I'll learn Chinese, I've been meaning to do that."

"Oh yeah, sure, Chinese, why not?" Stiles teases.

"A billion people speak Chinese," she says, as if somehow she needs to justify it.

"Hell, after what happened to you this week I'd say you've earned a vacation."

Lydia nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I suppose." She runs her hands down her shirt, wiping away invisible crumbs. "What about you?"

"Actually," he says, a little cautious. "I was thinking about staying here for a little while."

She twists to look up at him. "Really?"

"Well you see, I just finished a job that took about three months, and it's been awhile since I've had a vacation. If I don't take a break between jobs to clear my head it gets...kind of tough sometimes."

Lydia runs her thumb over the back of his hand. "Good. I think you've earned a vacation too."

*

Stiles gets a text around four, while he, Lydia and Scott are in the den hiding out from Chris and Allison, who are directing a veritable army of florists, decorators, and caterers around the house.

"Hey, come outside with me for a minute," Stiles says to Lydia, offering his hand to help her up from the couch. "My dad just got here, I want you to meet him."

"Alright," she says, missing the befuddled look Scott shoots him over her shoulder.

They walk carefully through the living room, giving a wide berth to a server who is constructing what looks like a champagne tower in the foyer. Outside a valet is taking the keys to a silver Toyota from his dad. The valet steps around to the passenger side and opens the door, and Natalie Martin steps out onto the driveway.

"Oh my god," Lydia whispers. "Mom. Mom!"

She flies down the steps, crying, and throws herself at her mother, who wraps her arms around her, kissing the top of Lydia's head.

Stiles walks over to his dad, his heart cracking a little listening to Lydia sob in her mother's arms.

His dad shakes his head and holds out his arms for a hug. "I've decided I don't need to know," his dad announces. "But it looks like you did a good thing here."

"Yeah," Stiles says, watching Lydia laugh through her tears, her face cupped in her mother's hands. "I think I did."

"Then I'm proud of you," his dad says. "And I don't want to know about whatever illegal shit you had to do to pull this off."

"Illegal? _Me?_ Pshaw." His dad rolls his eyes in response and slings an arm around his shoulders, messes up his hair.

"Mom." Lydia is tugging on her mother's hand, pulling her over to where Stiles is standing with his dad. "This is Stiles."

"Nice to meet you," he says, transfixed at the way Lydia is smiling at him, like he's just given her everything she ever could have wanted. 

"Mom," Lydia says softly, her smile widening. "Stiles saved me."

*

The party is supposed to start at seven; at six-thirty Stiles retreats to his room to take a shower. He's standing in the middle of the room, stripped down to his boxer briefs, when Lydia sneaks in, quietly shutting the door behind her.

"Jesus," Stiles exhales in surprise. "What are you doing in here, don't you have to get ready?"

Lydia whips off her shirt and rolls down her shorts. "You brought my mother here."

Stiles softens. "Of course I did."

Lydia walks across the room to him and slams her mouth against his. Stiles stumbles back, his hands going to her waist to steady himself. She's kissing him like she's trying to consume him, sucking the air right out of his lungs.

"I can't believe you did that for me," she whispers against his lips, bringing her hands to his hips to push down his boxer briefs.

"I'd do anything for you," he confesses, watching her bend over and peel off her thong, fling it halfway across the room.

She's still wearing the necklace and his hand goes to her collarbone to trace around the crystal. "You don't have to wear this anymore if you don't want to."

Lydia reaches up and curls her fingers over it. "I've heard some people like to take all the help they can get."

"Lydia," he whispers.

"Come on," she whispers back, and pulls him into the bathroom, turns on the vent before getting into the shower and turning the water on. 

Stiles follows her in, turning her around to face him. He bends over her, water rolling down his back, and presses her against the wall. She tilts her head up to kiss and Stiles cups her chin in his hand and presses his lips to hers. She makes a desperate noise and latches onto his mouth, her hands cupping his ass to bring him closer. The height's all wrong though, he's too tall or she's too short, so he has to get his hands under her thighs to lift her up.

Lydia gasps and brings her hands to his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his waist. "This is probably a really bad idea," she says, and then gives him a mischievous smile. "Counter?"

They leave the water on for more sound cover. Stiles carries her out of the shower and slips a towel under her ass before depositing her on the counter. He steps in between her open legs and now they're the perfect height, her thighs pressed against his hips, her hands braced against his waist for balance.

Stiles fists himself, catching the way Lydia is watching him, eyes wide, bottom lip between her teeth. He lines them up and rubs against her and she moans, her head tipping back. He leans down to kiss her neck, dizzy at how she feels against him. Lydia squirms, panting into his shoulder, arching against him.

"Condom," he grits out, searching blindly in the drawer under the sink where he keeps them. "Fuck, fuck, I don't think I have condoms, how is that possible, what the fuck?"

"It's fine, I'm on the pill," she gasps breathlessly, grinding up against him like a fucking invitation. "Are you clean?"

Stiles shakes his head, pushing the mystery of the disappearing condoms to the back of his head. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm clean."

"I've only been with werewolves, so..." 

"Way to eviscerate a guy's confidence, Lydia," he groans.

She laughs softly, smiling, and brings her hand down to wrap around him. "You're braver than any of them were," she whispers, rubbing him against her. "You're the bravest person I've ever met."

"Lydia," he murmurs, wrapping one hand across the back of her neck. Maybe it's a line but if it is it's a _really_ good one.

She tilts her hips up, looking up at him like she's asking for permission, and Stiles sinks into her slowly, watching as her eyes slide shut as he sheaths himself in _hot, tight, wet_.

"Okay?" he grits out, hand tight on her neck.

"Yeah," she answers breathily, and rolls her hips. 

He moves slow, breathing in steam, Lydia's skin damp and soft under his hands. He can't get enough of her, hand sliding up her stomach to cup her breasts before trailing down her side to squeeze her hip before repeating the whole process. She has her head tipped back, mouth parted, legs tightly curled around him.

He shifts forward to brace himself against to counter and Lydia cries out, clutching at his waist. He does it again and she makes the same noise. He keeps going, hands slipping against her skin, and Lydia starts to murmur, _oh, fuck, fuck_ , and then she pulls his hand away from her neck to cover her mouth. Stiles watches Lydia buck against him, eyes rolling back, and then she bites down on his palm. He gasps at the way she clamps down around him and has to drop his head to her shoulder to press his mouth against her skin when he comes.

They breath like that for a minute before Stiles pulls out and helps her clean up. Lydia wraps a towel around herself and goes up on her tiptoes to kiss him. "I have to go get dressed," she says softly. "I'll see you out there?"

"Okay," he agrees, running his hands over her bare shoulders.

Lydia smacks his ass before smirking and walking out of the bathroom.

*

When Stiles walks outside half an hour later the backyard has been completely transformed. Fairy lights have been woven through the bushes and trees. There are small tulle-draped tables with huge floral arrangements on them scattered around the yard. Caterers in black tuxedos are walking around with trays of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne.

Stiles spots Lydia across the yard standing with Allison, who's wearing a white cocktail dress with a filmy skirt. Lydia's wearing a light blue-green dress, he doesn't know the name of the exact color, the bodice covered in tiny crystal beads, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders.

Across the deck he can see Erica and Boyd standing with Danny and Isaac. Derek and Cora are standing near them, Derek in a dark suit and Cora in a hot pink backless gown. Derek is watching Erica carefully, before sliding his eyes over and catching Stiles' gaze. Derek rolls his eyes up to the sky in a _heaven help me_ kind of way but then he nods shortly at Stiles before sidling up to Isaac and holding his hand out to Erica to ostensibly introduce himself. 

"Hey," Scott says, walking over to stand next to him, nudging him with his shoulder. "You have anything to do with that?"

Stiles grins. "I plead the fifth?"

Scott tips his head back and laughs. "Sure, okay."

"Hey, has anyone stayed in my room when I've been gone?"

"Uh..." Scott wrinkles his forehead. "Isaac crashed here a few times, why?"

"Tell him he owes me a box of condoms."

Scott bursts out laughing and points his chin across the deck, where Isaac is standing next to Boyd, looking mildly horrified. The tuning of a violin makes Scott's head turn to the side. "Come on, Allison and I are doing a dance thing."

"A dance thing?"

Scott waves a hand at him, following him down the steps to the grass. "Dude, Argent's paying for everything, I'm just smiling and saying yes."

Stiles walks off to the side, helping himself to a glass of champagne. He sees his dad sitting at a table across the yard with Melissa, Natalie, and Chris. He sips contentedly, watching someone announce Scott and Allison, who both smile bashfully and begin a pre-orchestrated slow dance on the dance floor they've put up in the center of the yard.

Stiles jumps a little when Lydia appears at his side. Her eyes are lined with black and her lips are painted a soft rosy pink. "Hey," he says, setting his champagne down on a nearby table. "You look gorgeous."

Lydia smirks and reaches out to smooth her hands over his new grey suit. "Nice," she comments lightly.

Other guests are starting to join Scott and Allison out on the dance floor, first their parents but then everyone else.

"You'd think this was the wedding," Lydia says wryly. "I have a feeling I'm going to regret my choice in shoes by the end of the night."

Stiles glances down, she's wearing expensive-looking strappy gold sandals. "You could always just take them off," he suggests.

Lydia snorts and wraps her arm around his waist. "Heathen."

"Can you move in those?"

"For now."

"Great." He holds out his hand palm up. "Dance with me?"

Lydia gives him a look like he's gone insane. "No."

"No?" Stiles balks. " _No?_ "

"No," she says again, a placid smile on her face. 

"Lydia." He steps forward to slide one hand around the small of her back. "Is that any way to treat the guy who saved your life?"

"Twice," she reminds him, and lets out a long suffering sigh before taking his hand. "Don't think that'll work every time."

Okay," he says cheerily, because she's walking with her hand in his all the way to the middle of the dance floor before spinning around and looping her arms around his waist.

Lydia blinks up at him before letting out a helpless laugh. "We're going to get into so much trouble together, aren't we?"

"Hopefully," he says, and bends down and kisses her.

She kisses him back, and it's just a swirl of lights and champagne and flavored lipstick. When she pulls away Stiles can feel everyone's eyes on them but Lydia just shakes her head and reaches up to wipe her lipstick off his bottom lip.

"What am I ever going to do with you?" she murmurs, and pulls him a little closer so that she can rest her head on his chest as they sway to the music.

Stiles drops a kiss on the top of her head. "I'm sure you'll figure something out."

She looks up at him and winks. "I always do."

Stiles throws his head back and laughs. "I don't doubt it."

She smiles, the crystal on her chest glowing in the soft lights. "Thank you," she says softly. "I'm not sure I've actually said that yet."

Stiles slides his hand dangerously close to the top of her ass. "I can think of a few ways you can make it up to me."

"You wish, Stilinski," she teases.

The song switches to something upbeat and everyone follows along, dancing while caterers dart around setting the tables. Scott and Allison are wrapped up in each other, looking just _stupid_ happy. He can see Erica and Isaac jumping up and down, waving their hands around, Derek and Boyd in serious conversation a few feet away. Farther off he can see Liam, Hayden and Mason being ushered onto the deck, drinks in their hands.

"What do you think?" Stiles asks Lydia. "Got one more dance in you?"

"I think I can handle that." Lydia tweaks his cheek and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He leads her closer to their friends and they dance and dance, surrounded by everyone they love in one place, bubbling with joy and sparkling like the champagne everyone is drinking. And maybe it won't be easy all the time, or lit up and glowing like tonight, but they've already been through the worst together, have bled and cried and survived.

Stiles spins Lydia around and she blurs around him like a ballerina twirling in a music box, sending light scattering, and Stiles knows that whatever happens next it'll be okay, because he'll be with Lydia, and they'll figure it out together.

They've got time, after all.


End file.
